


Ways of Falling

by ayumie



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode Cases, First Time, Fixing Nick, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Past Brainwashing, People learning to work together, Post-Season/Series 02, Royals plotting, Slow Burn, THIS FIC IS NOW COMPLETE, UST to be resolved, bamf renard, evil!Nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayumie/pseuds/ayumie
Summary: Eric succeeded in kidnapping Nick during the Zombie invasion and brainwashed him. Now he sends his pet Grimm back to Portland to retrieve the key and send his dear half-brother a message. Nick's friends in Portland have to band together to get him back. Will they manage? And even if they do, will Nick ever be the same again?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been quite some time coming and I'm really happy to be able to finally post the first part. So far about 75% of the fanfic (90 pages!) are done and I'm confident I'll be able to finish the story. It's been a rocky journey. Several scenes had to be written and rewritten until they would fit, a few of the characters (you know who you are!) just wouldn't cooperate and then the whole thing just kept evolving – look forward to a whole second story arc set in Vienna! Now before we get started, I'd like to thank the people whithout whom I would have never gotten this far: 
> 
> To munditia who whacked me over the head when I though I could get away writing this as a few paltry scenes and pithy dialogue. To trobadura who helped me see Juliette in a more sympathetic light. To muraki who spent entire evenings with me, working things out when the characters wouldn't cooperate. To Lea who smoothed over my English in these first chapters. I love all of you!
> 
> A small part of this was actually written in Vienna. My very own Austrian cousin was not only kind enough to let me crash at her place and eventually went to have coffee at Hotel Sacher with me, even though 'there are lots of other coffee houses with nice cake that aren't chock full of tourists'. The girl's a saint!
> 
> Last but not least I'm looking for a new beta-reader for the later parts of this story. It should be a native speaker (since I am not). Maybe somebody here is interested? Either way, comments are greatly appreciated!

It was dark. Alerted by a sudden noise, Renard sat up. The door was open and the curtains had been drawn back, letting some light into the room. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he froze. Like something summoned from a nightmare, Nick Burkhardt was standing by the window. It had been two months. He didn't look different, not really, but aggression was written in the set of his shoulders, the tiny shift forward. Suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, Renard's hand inched towards the nightstand.

“I'm not here to kill you.”

Nick's voice was low, harsh. He stepped closer, looking down at Renard.

“Eric sends his regards. I am to tell you exactly what is going to happen next. I am going to Rosalee to get the key. If she refuses to give it up, I'll kill her. If anybody gets into my way, I'll kill them, too. Then I'll return to Vienna and deliver the key to Eric, which will strengthen his position within the family and ultimately help him become king. You're welcome to stay in this little backwater hole you've dug yourself and be forgotten. By everybody.”

“And what will I be doing while you kill your friends and hand a weapon to our enemy?”

“You'll be unconscious. But first, Eric said to give you a taste of what you could have had.”

Before Renard could react, Nick was straddling him, face close to his, breaths mingling. The first taste was more of a shock than a punch would have been. He could feel callused fingers brushing against the nape of his neck, soft lips and the uncompromising strength of Nick's body pinning him. Heat shot through him, pooling in his stomach. _Nick._ After a moment, the hand gripping his shoulder slipped down, briefly teasing a nipple before dropping to his groin. The kiss ended and Nick's mouth slid to his ear, voice soft and breathy, mocking.

“So he was right. I never even guessed...”

Nick must have heard something, because all of a sudden he whirled around. Renard used the chance to grab the small bag of powder he had hidden between the pillows, punched his thumb through the seal and tossed the content into the Grimm's face. Seconds later, Nick slumped and Meisner appeared in the door.

“What the hell took you so long?”

Expression unchanging, Meisner surveyed the scene in front of him.

“Hundjäger. I think I got all of them. You all right?”

Renard nodded.

“Just as expected – he arrived on the plane Sebastien indicated. We're lucky he came here first, though. I'm not sure Monroe and Rosalee would have been ready to deal with … this. Well, my brother never could resist the chance to gloat. ”

Together, they rolled Nick onto his stomach, tied his hands and feet, blindfolded and gagged him. The powder wasn't supposed to wear off within the next few hours, but with a Grimm it was better not to take any chances. Meisner was driving, taking care not to go too fast, even though Renard's car was unlikely to be stopped by some traffic patrol. All the same, a bound, unconscious man in the trunk might prove difficult to explain.

“Is it as bad as we feared?”

“We're going to have to be very careful. I just hope...”

He couldn't quite bring himself to say the words. It might be the simple matter of breaking a spell, performing some ritual. Rosalee had been working on antidotes based on what little information they'd been able to get from Vienna. Suppressing a sigh, Renard pulled out his cell and sent the carefully oblique messages that meant that they'd meet at the old farmhouse near Portland he had bought under an assumed name. The basement in particular had been reinforced, leaving it bare but functional, with a toilet, a sink and a number of security cameras. Renard carried Nick inside, gently bedding him onto the mattress they had prepared. Meisner stayed near with a stun gun as he untied the Grimm and cuffed one wrist to a chain set into the wall, but there was no reaction. Leaning down, Renard struggled to come to terms with the reality of the situation. They had prepared for this very moment, knew this was necessary, but all the same it hurt to see Nick like this, Nick who still looked exactly like he had before he'd been ... lost. Shouldn't there be some outward sign of the change that had been wrought upon him, something to remind them that this wasn't the friend they had known? Anything to make what they had to do easier? Of course there wasn't. Renard let his fingers rest against Nick's neck for a moment, feeling his pulse. It'd be all right. He had to believe that.

The sound of a car pulling up broke the moment and Renard quickly stood. He could still feel the warmth of Nick's skin as they went upstairs to face the others.

“Where is he?”

Monroe was through the door first, anxiety naked in his voice. Rosalee was close behind, carrying a satchel she carefully placed onto the big table. Eyeing the vials and boxes being unpacked, Renard nodded toward the back of the room.

“In the basement, just like we discussed.”

“He's all right, then? You didn't-?”

Renard fought down annoyance, reminding himself that it wouldn't do to antagonize the Blutbad further. At moments like this, however, he couldn’t quite remember why he had kept Monroe from mounting that impromptu attack on Eric's castle like he'd been talking about.

“No problems. The powder worked just like it was supposed to. Thank you, Rosalee. I used the full dose just to be sure, so he probably won't be waking up for a few more hours.”

She, at least, had the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable. Juliette and Hank arrived mere minutes later, equally worried, equally suspicious. One by one, they filed down the steep stairs. Renard watched Juliette stumble as she stepped into the room, had to resist the urge to reach out to her. Rosalee put a hand onto her shoulder instead, steadying her. He was glad he couldn't see their faces. They had all been here before, but seeing this room, this prison, actually put to use wasn't something that could be prepared for. Monroe looked around wildly, then turned to face Meisner, who had circled halfway around the room, stun gun lowered but very much present.

“Is this really necessary?”

“We've been through this. He came here to get the key for my brother and he's prepared to kill us all for it – he told me as much before I knocked him out. They've had months to work on him.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Juliette again, accusatory. Jaw clenching, Renard met her eyes. He didn't point out that he had tried, had traveled to Austria twice: once for an official audience with his father, who had merely ordered 'the boys to stop squabbling over their toys' and once to meet with the resistance and Meisner to figure out whether there was any hope of getting into his brother's heavily fortified home. He had failed, as simple as that, and they had all paid the price. None of that would help with what they had to do next, though.

“We've been over this. What matters now is that we control the situation and work together to help Nick. Fighting among ourselves is not only stupid, it's dangerous. Unless you have changed your mind?”

“He talked to you? What else did he say?”

Trust Hank not to miss anything important. Meeting the challenging eyes of his detective, Renard hesitated for a moment. Hank held himself very straight, arms crossed in front of his chest, a pose familiar from countless interviews.

“Not much. Mostly insults delivered in the name of my dear brother. That was the point of his visit, after all.”

Not a lie exactly. Meisner cleared his throat and Renard nodded at him, relieved to have someone else take over.

“Ground rules first: Nobody goes in here alone, no matter what. One person approaches him, the other stands by with a stun gun – make sure they have a clear shot. If you need anything, if you get hungry, whatever: Get into the car and drive into town. No deliveries. I guess I don't have to tell you to run in case he gets loose.”

Hank was the first to nod, then, to Renard's surprise, Rosalee followed suit. She fixed her lover with a steady gaze until he muttered his assent. Juliette was the last to give in.

“Fine. Fine, but I want to talk to him as soon as he wakes up. I need to... This is Nick!”

The pain in her voice was intensely intimate, far too raw. There wasn't anything else to say. Together, they settled in for an uncomfortable night.

It wasn't pretty. In the morning, Hank and Renard accompanied Juliette downstairs, doing their best to blend into the background, to give her privacy with the man who used to be her boyfriend. It was easy to underestimate her, Renard thought as he watched her confront Nick, but right at this moment her courage was impossible to deny. Face pale, lips trembling, she refused to set Nick free over and over again, told him they knew what had been done to him, that he wasn't himself. She loved him, though, and they were all here to help and they'd bring him back. In return, she got a barrage of insults, Kehrseite whore being the kindest. Juliette held her head high, turned stiffly on her heel and didn't break down until she was back upstairs.

Even without the hazy remnants of Adalind's love spell, it would have been difficult not to feel for her. Renard watched Nick slump against the wall, energy spent. Their eyes met, blue to green, both bright with anger.

“I thought about having Eric assassinated, you know. After he took you.”

Nick's lips peeled back.

“You wouldn't dare!”

How little Nick knew him. Not before, not now.

“I would have. There was no telling what'd have happened to his household, though. Any prisoner would have been ... easy game.”

Most likely, it'd have meant a bullet in the head for Nick. His father had never had much interest in Grimms.

“Should I be grateful, then? That you care?”

Bitter words, spit into his face. Renard didn't bother to hide his fury.

“Yes. Yes, you should be.”

*

Nick continued to fight them. He managed to kick Monroe when they tried to inject him with a potion based on the zombie-cure and called Rosalee a useless cur fit to be shot. Hank, he ignored altogether, refusing to so much as acknowledge his presence, which compared to the treatment the rest of them received, was almost a relief. By the time Nick's voice was hoarse from shouting increasingly graphic death threats, they were more than ready to call it a day.

Renard was glad to be able to excuse himself. The last thing they needed was another confrontation and right now they were all exhausted, all hurting in so many different ways. Reminding himself of all the reasons it was important to stop by at the precinct, he picked up his coat. Meisner followed him to the car, a quiet, solid presence as he had been for most of that terrible day. A quick glance confirmed that they were out of earshot.

“Will you manage without me?”

There was no need to ask what Meisner meant. Monroe and Rosalee might be Wesen, but they didn't have any kind of training. Other than their recent adventures with Nick, nothing in their quiet, orderly lives had prepared them for playing guards to a very angry Grimm – at least nothing Renard had been able to unearth. Juliette was … Juliette. Even Hank, who was a police officer, couldn't be entirely relied on, since the man they were currently imprisoning had been his partner for years. His instinct would be to protect Nick, rather than perceive him as the threat he had become. Renard shook his head.

“I'll manage. You have more important things to take care of.”

Meisner smiled thinly and, suppressing a shiver, Renard thought that he never wanted that expression directed at him.

“I'm taking the first flight tomorrow. Unless you have changed your mind?”

“No. No changes. Besides, we need the information. Anything you can get.”

Stepping back, Meisner nodded- And just like that it was done. Renard started the engine.

“Viel Glück.”

*

At some point in the middle of the night, Renard's phone rang. He wasn't entirely surprised to find that he recognized the number. This should be interesting. Picking up, he made sure to keep his voice calm, level.

“Eric.”  
  
“Sean. How are you, dear brother? I trust you received my present?”

Fishing, then. Eric hadn't heard back from Nick or the Verrat agents he had sent with him, so he was trying to find out what had happened.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Although I wonder whether you can call something a present when it's been stolen from you in the first place.”

Eric laughed, amused and just a little derisive.

“Stolen? Such a harsh word. As our father informed you, Mr. Burkhardt has been enjoying my hospitality. And trust me, he's been enjoying himself. Didn't show him much of the world, did you? I did. I could send you pictures...“

“I imagine he saw quite a lot as a detective of the Portland P.D.,” Renard said, stalling, “My detective.”

Eric answered with undisguised satisfaction: “ _My_ Grimm.”

“Are you certain? He hasn't called you, has he? Nor have any of the others. I regret to inform you that several bodies have been discovered in Portland – not too far from my place, in fact. Of course I don't have all the details yet and I can't talk about an ongoing investigation...”

That, at least, made Eric pause.

“You wouldn't kill him. The key-”

“Wouldn't I? If I caught him breaking into my apartment? In the middle of the night?”

He might have, if he hadn't had warning. There was a moment of silence. When Eric spoke again, he didn't sound quite as suave as before.

“You're lying. ”

“I assure you, those bodies are real enough. You're welcome to check through official channels.”

Hopefully that would keep him busy for a few days. And then-

“Trust me, I will. This isn't over.”

No, it wasn't. Thinking of Nick, chained in that prison, held captive by the friends he professed to hate now, Renard could agree with his brother on that much at least.

*

Predictably, it was Renard who broke the rules. He drove out late one night and let himself into the basement, drawing up a chair to sit on the far side of the room. Rosalee's latest concoction had left Nick more high than anything else. He rolled around slowly, one arm flung over his head, eyes dazed and dull. The handcuffs clinked.

“Aren't you scared of me? All alone in here with the big, bad Grimm...”

“Eric will have ordered you not to kill me. Besides, I've got a gun and I think you know that if it comes down to you or me, I won't hesitate to use it.”

Nick's laughter was raspy, humorless.

“You'd shoot me, wouldn't you? Is that what you're here for?”

Renard didn't say anything. He wasn't entirely sure why he had come, hadn't allowed himself to examine his own motives too closely. Nick shifted a bit, drugged mind clearly working.

“Well, it wouldn't be your first murder, would it? You didn't think twice about trying to have my aunt killed. Botched that one, though, didn't you? Eric laughed when he heard about it. You're such a joke, Sean. All those years of plotting and lying and what do you have to show for it? Captain of the Portland P.D. Couldn't even hold on to a key you already had in your hands. They're all laughing about you, back in Vienna.”

Renard drew a deep breath, forced his Zauberbiest down as it wanted to snarl its outrage. It wouldn't do to show that kind of reaction. Eric's words, he told himself, Eric's poison, but hearing those from Nick's mouth made it even worse. Deliberately leaning back, he kept his voice calm, reasonable.

“I chose to give the key back to you, as you might recall. Just like I chose to help you and Juliette when Adalind put her into a coma. Just like I'm helping you now. I never wanted us to be enemies.”

Those blue eyes narrowed, sharpened.

“No, you just wanted me to follow orders like a good little soldier. Your pet Grimm. Even back then I knew better than to listen to you. And now- Oh, I get it. You're wondering what Eric told me about you. About your past. He's told me everything, Sean. All the dirty little secrets you've been guarding so carefully.”

Nick's voice was slightly slurred, but he seemed clear enough and, God, this had been a mistake. He might be lying, of course, but Renard didn't think so. Eric knew plenty, could have inferred more, if he had chosen to dig, or simply made up whatever he thought would do the most damage.

“Yes, I can see that he would have. And, of course, my dear brother is eminently trustworthy.”

Weak, dissembling rather than refuting. Even though, Nick bristled at the implied insult, lips twisting as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“He was right about you, wasn't he? About what you'd like to do to me. Are you thinking about it right now? What about fucking me here, in this damned prison? Would that be good for you, Sean? On some dingy mattress, handcuffed. Would you make me scream?”

Renard's breath rushed out of him. Just a few steps across the room and he'd reach Nick, shut that cruel mouth up. His mind supplied the memory of taste, of scent, and at the same time a confused jumble of Juliette's helplessly clenched fists, the look of panic in Rosalee's eyes as she scrambled out of reach just in time. His blood thundered in his ears, a mixture of anger and lust churning low in his stomach. Renard imagined that strong body writhing against him, pinned by a grip not even a Grimm could break. He _would_ make Nick scream, give him exactly what he'd ask for, what he deserved and-

Tasting bile, Renard froze. No. God, no. Heat draining from his body, he shook his head in denial.

“That's not how I want you.”

Nick's eyes were fixed on him, face flushed. So wrong.

“But you _do_ want me.”

*

Several days later, Rosalee admitted defeat. Her call reached Renard during a meeting with the mayor and by the time he made it to their makeshift prison, the others were already waiting. The group had gathered around the table in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, exchanging glances when he entered. He took in the way Rosalee was huddled over her coffee mug, Monroe hovering protectively behind her. Her eyes were angry, though, determined.

“He tried to kill me. He was on the ground – I thought he was having some sort of bad reaction to the potion I'd put into his water. I went to him and he just came at me. He really would have killed me, if Monroe hadn't used the stun gun.”

Juliette lifted her head as though to protest, but thought better of it. She took a deep breath, rallying.

“We can't give up now. There has to be something else we can try, something we haven't been doing. Or whatever they used to brainwash him might wear off. This is Nick we are talking about!”

Renard found that he couldn't meet her eyes. No, they wouldn't give up. Not yet anyway. He wondered whether any of the others had realized just what would need to happen, if they didn't manage to restore Nick to some version of normalcy. He was too dangerous to let go.

“It's been a week now. We can't keep him in here forever,” Hank threw in, eyes hard, penetrating. He, at least, seemed to have some idea. Gritting his teeth, Renard resolutely shut off that line of thought. It wouldn't come to that. They still had options.

It was Monroe, who summed it up: “I hate to say it, but … we need a Hexenbiest.”

As expected, it fell to Renard to find one. The pleasure on Henrietta's face as she found him on her doorstep was genuine. She led him into her living room, motioned for him to sit.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea, please.”

Her smile turned knowing.

“Business, then. I'll be right back.”

It was a mark of the trust between them that he drank without hesitation. Henrietta listened carefully as he described the situation, explained what they needed her to do. Answering her carefully worded questions to the best of his knowledge, Renard searched her face for hope. She didn't say anything for a few minutes, thoughtfully stirring her tea.

“A Grimm. Who would have thought? I'll need to see him, of course, and I'll need the additional information you promised. I have books that might prove helpful, but it'd be a great help if I knew where to start looking.”

Renard held his breath. He knew Henrietta well enough to tell that she was intrigued, but that in itself didn't mean anything. As though she had read his mind, she put down her cup with a quick, decisive motion. She had never been one to waver.

“Very well. I'm willing to try. But that kind of favor doesn't come for free. Not even for you, Sean. And I'll want some assurances.”

Renard suppressed a sigh of relief, a rueful smile playing over his lips.

“I didn't think it would be. What do you want?”

“What I've always wanted.”

She looked at him, quietly, patiently as he shook his head in denial, any sense of relief instantly wiped away. The lines of her beautiful face were unrelenting. Renard had known her for most of his life, trusted her as much as he trusted anyone, but what she was asking... He needed her, though, needed her help and judging by her utter calm, she was very much aware of it.

“I won't settle for anything less. You're asking me to risk my life working on a hostile Grimm. I'm not some stupid little girl you can blind to danger with a few kind words and promises of a bright future. I know what happened to the last Hexenbiest who messed with Nicholas Burkhardt and judging by what you just told me, he's even more dangerous now.”

She leaned forward, voice softening.

“You don't have to do it, of course. We can just have tea, talk about old times and go our separate ways. No hard feelings.”

He wouldn't find anyone else as capable as she was, though, as powerful, and they both knew it. As Juliette had put – this was Nick they were talking about. Renard might tell himself that having a Grimm working for him was a cornerstone for all the plans he had made in the past years, that it made strategic sense to defend that asset by any means necessary, and most of the time he believed himself, but in the end it all came down to Nick being Nick.

“What if you fail?”

Henrietta shrugged.

“All the more danger to me, I should say. You are buying my best effort. If anyone promises you more, they are lying. For what it's worth, I think I have a good chance of working something out.”

She'd say that. With a tiny nod, Renard acknowledged defeat. Instantly, Henrietta's eyes turned hungry, a shadow of her Woge shivering over her face.

“I want it now.”

Trust only went so far, it appeared. It was Renard's turn to shrug.

“Why not. You understand, of course, that the moment I leave here, I'll be going to see Nick. I'll tell him your name, what you are and that you're helping us. It is always best if everybody knows who exactly they are dealing with, no?”

Inclining her head, Henrietta acknowledged the hit.

“I wouldn't expect anything less from you. Now, if you'd please roll up your sleeve?”

By the time Henrietta had retrieved a glass vial and a wickedly curved knife, Renard was ready. Face impassive, he held out his arm, watched the blade bite into flesh. The pain was dull, distant. He watched his blood drip into the vial. Once it was full, Henrietta placed her hand onto the wound. There was a fierce, burning sting and, instantly the blood stopped flowing. She motioned for Renard to stay where he was and produced a wet cloth from behind her, gently wiping his arm. For a moment her touch lingered, a gentle, almost maternal gesture.

“I'll do my best to help your friend, Sean. He must be very special.”

It was too soon, though, the vial filled with his blood too present, this part of himself to be sold or traded or used. Royal blood. His mother had warned him against this. Swallowing down irritation, Renard rolled down his sleeve.

“Are you sure you don't want to take a pound of flesh as well?”

Henrietta's eyes were dark, gleaming under half-lowered lashes. She seemed amused rather than offended.

“Don't tempt me, Sean. You're getting off cheap as it is.”

It certainly didn't feel that way. Renard got up, put his jacket back on.

“When will you be starting to work on our … problem?”

“Right away. Like I said, I'm going to consult my books.”

Her grimoire. Doing his best to ignore the vial of blood sitting on the side table, Renard nodded.

“I'll be leaving you to your reading, then. Let me know when you are ready to meet Nick.”

Henrietta accompanied him to the door. When he reached for the handle, however, she stopped him.

“I almost forgot. We'll need the Baron.”

Gritting his teeth, Renard looked down at her. She seemed to be taking pleasure in his shock, which, perhaps, given her nature, shouldn't have come as a surprise.

“The Baron.”

“Yes. His poison started this, his poison will end it. Hopefully.”

“And I'm supposed to do what? Bring him to you alive?”

“Oh no. I try not to ask for the impossible. His head will suffice. Reasonably fresh, of course.”

One head, reasonably fresh. Lately, it seemed, killing for Nick was all he was doing. Renard left without another word, Henrietta's laughter following him into the yard.

 


	2. Chapter 2

At Renard's second late night visit, Nick seemed considerably clearer. He was sitting with his back against the wall, legs drawn up in front of him, eyes shadowed.

“You again. Come to talk secrets?”

Pulling a chair to the middle of the room, Renard sat.

“In a way. Yours, though, not mine. Eric tested you before sending you back to Portland, didn't he? He wasn't exactly discreet – or perhaps he just didn't care that anyone who knows what they are looking for will be able to trace you.”

For a split second a shadow seemed to flit over Nick's face. Then he snarled.

“They were enemies, all of them. They got what they deserved. I don't care if everybody knows.”

“Really? Should I tell your friends, then? About Innsbruck?”

He had seen the pictures, beheaded bodies, toppled like so many broken toys. Again that strange look and this time Nick shifted, pressing his back against the wall. Renard waited, taking care to maintain an expression of polite interest. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head, considered carefully just what he wanted to say, Nick's possible responses.

“What, the old man? He was working with the resistance.”

“I know. I knew him, in fact – him and his family. Has it ever occurred to you that if Eric's mother had had a Grimm to send after mine, I wouldn't be here?”

Just a touch of anger, then, to draw Nick on, keep him talking.

“And I'm supposed to care? What, you think it's going to be that easy? You make me face what I've done and I'm overcome with guilt, begging for your help?”

There was something almost bitter in Nick's voice, like the words themselves were sticking in his throat. Renard leaned forward.

“Tell me, then. Tell me what Eric did to you.”

“Eric made me realize that I don't have to spend the rest of my life as some small-time cop. I am meant for greater things.”

That certainly sounded like his brother.

“Is that what you want, Nick? Great things? We once talked about making history, as I recall. You didn't seem all that interested.”

“I want to serve the family. I'll bring the key to Eric. There are others who are thinking like us. Eric will build an alliance and we'll restore the old ways, the old privileges. House Kronenberg will rule supreme.”

The words sounded mechanical, recited by rote. There was something there, though, an opening he could use. 

“Eric isn't the family. My father is king.”

“As Eric will be. You're just a Zauberbiest-bastard.”

Nick was still looking at him, though, almost expectant. Whatever one might say about Eric, he honored the family and he had clearly impressed its importance on Nick. Renard was a part of that, however remote or distasteful. He could twist whatever had been done to Nick's mind, simply replace one master with another. Surely that'd be easier than trying to fix the damage. Safer, too.

Henrietta wouldn't care. He'd been the one who had bought her services, the wishes of the others would be less than nothing to her. Nobody else even needed to know. Nick could still have his life, his friends, Renard wouldn't begrudge him that. Everything would be just as it had been before, except that now Nick would listen to him, follow his lead. He wouldn't even touch him. It wasn't as though Renard would misuse him the way Eric had.

Eric... Nausea rising, Renard looked at Nick. He wouldn't be any better than his brother – worse, in a way, since he didn't just see a Grimm, a commodity. No. He was better than Eric, he needed to believe that much about himself. He needed Nick to believe it, too. Taking a deep breath, Renard kept pushing.

“Do you remember being hurt?”

“Eric didn't hurt me.”

“Who did, then?”

Nick didn't answer, perhaps couldn't. It was enough for one night. Renard got to his feet, pulled the chair back into its former position. At the foot of the stairs, he once more turned back.

“By the way, do you know Henrietta Beauvais? She's a Hexenbiest here in Portland, a powerful one. She'll be helping us with your condition.”

It was always good to keep a promise. Nick's eyes were wide, confused.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Think about it. I'm sure you'll figure it out.”

*

One evening Renard was sitting in the kitchen of the old farmhouse. He had only meant to briefly check on Nick, perhaps fast forward through the day's security tapes, but then he'd gotten a call on his cell from Europe, which had led him to check his mail and he'd been sucked into a maelstrom of work-related problems. Over the past months, Portland's Wesen-community had gradually grown aware that there was no longer a Grimm in residence, which, of course, meant that a few of its less law-abiding members had started to act out. It was downright insulting. This had been his city, damn it, had been for years before the appearance of Nick Burkhardt. With grim satisfaction, Renard sent a message to one of his contacts, making sure that a somewhat overambitious Lausenschlange would be dealt with.  
The sound of the door opening made his head snap up. It was Rosalee, carrying a cardboard box and looking just as surprised as he was. She recovered quickly, though.

“Oh. Hello. I just finished the first batch of ingredients your friend requested for her spell and thought I'd bring them over right away. How is Nick?”

“He seems calmer. I didn't actually go inside, but when I checked in on him earlier, he appeared to be sleeping.”

“Good. That's good.”

Her voice trailed off as they simultaneously realized that they had never been alone together. After a moment, Renard gestured for the electric water kettle Hank had supplied from his bachelor kitchen.

“There's hot water left, if you'd like tea. Your stress relief blend from the spice shop is very good.”

As a general rule, Renard didn't drink a lot of tea, but he hadn't brought anything else and at this time of the night coffee – even instant – was out of the question. Rosalee smiled, visibly pleased.

“Sure. I'd like that.”

Renard's phone kept buzzing, but he ignored it in favor of watching the woman in front of him. Rosalee moved with confident grace, determinedly ignoring any awkward tension.

“So when are we going to meet your Hexenbiest-friend?”

Polite interest rather than hostility, although, of course, she had to be wary.

“Soon. She'll be coming here to take care of a few preparations. Everything needs to be in place when we get the … final ingredient.”

Rosalee suppressed a flinch, expressive mouth twisting in distaste, but she didn't avert her eyes. Renard remembered the moment he'd told the group what they'd have to do, clipped, precise words like dropping stones into calm water. Monroe had been all for it, eyes flashing Blutbaden-red as he talked about finding the Baron himself. Hank had turned away for a moment, clearly struggling with himself. He had bent the law for Nick before, though, said as much when pressed. It had been Rosalee who had worried him, the expression on her face as she had turned on her boyfriend. Renard didn't know her that well, but she didn't strike him as the kind of person who could be talked into doing something she didn't believe in, into looking away from it. In the end, she had nodded, though, repeating their mantra: 'This is Nick.' Juliette hadn't said anything.

Rosalee's voice brought Renard back into the present.

“This Henrietta – what did you promise her in return from her help? If you don't mind my asking.”

He did mind. Renard understood her caution, though, her need to know, appreciated it in a way. There was little point in lying. He needed her, after all, her and the others, needed them to trust him enough to work with him.

“I gave her my blood.”

Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, lips parted in surprise, and clearly she understood enough about magic to realize what this meant, what kind of power he had traded away. She'd probably been expecting something else altogether, some sort of nefarious quid pro quo involving the entire group. Nobody liked owing a Hexenbiest.

“Oh. I didn't realize... Will you be all right?”

He would be, if only Rosalee would stop looking at him like that. She was doing the sympathy thing well, though, all warmth and no pity. It was easy to see why people would confide in her, why they'd want to. They could use somebody like that at the precinct, Renard thought irrelevantly.

“She's been my mother's friend for more than two decades. I'm confident she won't use this against me.”

Not totally, though. Never that. Rosalee nodded as though she understood. For a while they sat in silence, sipping their tea. It could have been almost comfortable, if they hadn't been aware of what was waiting in the basement. Finally Rosalee sighed.

“I know it's cowardly, but I can't bring myself to go down there tonight. Nick... I want to be there for him, I really do, but it's hard. None of this is his fault, but he's so...”

She didn't finish the sentence, didn't need to. It was hard for all of them. Renard hesitated, not sure how to offer comfort.

“It shouldn't be long now. I didn't want to say anything before I had concrete results, but Meisner was able to get his hands on a member of Eric's household. He's currently persuading the man that it's in his best interest to talk. Everything is proceeding as smoothly as we could have hoped – and you are holding up well, all of you. Nick is lucky to have such friends.”

Rosalee studied his face for a moment, then, as she got up to wash out her mug, she briefly touched his shoulder.

“We are doing well, aren't we? All of us.”

The following day, a small package was delivered to Renard's office at the precinct. He found himself smiling as he unwrapped a month's supply of the spice shop's special stress relief tea. 

*

Henrietta's first meeting with the group went as well as could be expected. She was very much the grande dame, bearing Monroe's open suspicion and Juliette's wary curiosity with professional courtesy. Probably she simply didn't care.

Having had his own experiences with Hexenbiest magic, Hank hung back a little as they went inside and Renard watched Juliette step up to him, the tremulous smile she gave him. In the kitchen Henrietta inspected the supplies Rosalee had provided from the spice shop, jars and bottles carefully lined up and marked in her neat handwriting. She nodded slowly, running her fingertip over one flask, then another. Then she stopped.

“What's this? Yeast? I'm not looking to bake a cake, girl.”

Rosalee met her eyes without hesitation, spine very straight. 

“Stropharia isn't in season and my supplies ran out two months ago. It's just supposed to enlarge the surface, right? Speed up absorption? Yeast should work.”

For the first time, Henrietta really looked at her. A slow smile spread over her face.

“Yeast, is it? Tell me your name again, girl. I think I'd better remember it, after all.”

“Rosalee. And you should. I've been processing your mail orders at the spice shop for the past two years.”

Both women were smiling now, acknowledging mutual expertise. 

“I won't forget. Careful there, Rosalee. We'll make a witch out of you, yet.”

Having had first hand-opportunity to observe Rosalees work, the evidence of her skill, Renard thought that she was halfway there already. He wondered whether it was a good thing for her to have drawn Henrietta's attention. There was no time to worry about that now, however. They still needed to go down into the basement. 

“I have a question.”

Juliette. She was standing close to the door, arms crossed in front of her chest, all but hugging herself. Her eyes were fixed on Henrietta.

“Will he remember after you bring him back? This place? Everything?”

“Yes.”

Renard caught Monroe and Rosalee exchanging a quick glance, wondered whether they had talked about this before. Undeterred, Juliette pressed on. 

“But he will be the same as before?”

For a moment, Henrietta didn’t answer. She tilted his head, considering the matter with the air of somebody puzzling over a scientific question. To her it was.

“If everything goes well, Eric's hold in his mind, his loyalty, will be broken. He will be able to think for himself again. In that way, yes, he will be the same. As for anything else – aren't we all the product of our experiences?”

And what experiences those were. Uncomfortably aware that the others didn’t know the half of it, Renard kept his face carefully blank. Nick was strong, he’d get past this. They all would. Besides, it wasn’t as though they had more immediate problems to worry about. Producing a diplomatic smile, he gestured towards the back of the room.

“Why don’t we take this downstairs?”

At first, Nick didn't seem particularly impressed. Renard made the introductions, saw a glint of recognition in those blue eyes, but other than that there was no reaction. That changed quickly when Henrietta went to squat in front of him and, without any warning, went into her Woge. Renard heard Juliette's sharp intake of breath, Monroe's muttered exclamation, but none of that was anything compared to Nick's reaction: He surged forward, face twisted into a savage snarl, hands clawing at the air as he was brought up short by the handcuffs. Then, realizing the helplessness of his position, he scrambled back, pressing into the corner, back against the wall.

“Don't! Get her away from me! Sean, please!”

Renard could only hope that shock at Nick's violent reaction would cover for his use of his first name. This could be a ruse, of course, but somehow he didn't think so. The whipcord tension in that body was real, breaths quick and shallow, eyes panicked. Nick wasn't that good an actor. Renard found that he wanted to lunge forward, let his own Zauberbiest rise, grab his old friend by the throat and throw her across the room. Not a good idea.

Hank moved in instead, not quite touching Henrietta but putting himself squarely in front of her. His voice was calm, quiet, very much cop.

“I think you'd better step back, lady.”

She did. Face smoothing into its usual elegant features, she got to her feet and turned around. Satisfaction was evident in her voice.

“I've seen enough. Let us go back upstairs.”

It was probably all for the best that Henrietta took her leave soon after. She didn’t remind Renard to call her as soon as he had news of the Baron. She didn’t have to.

*

Renard was at the precinct when he got the mail. He didn't recognize the address and all it contained was a link to what appeared to be a news broadcast. His breath caught. Glancing up, he confirmed that the door was close, the blinds drawn. With a calm, deliberate motion, Renard opened the link. He watched the video twice, body very still, stomach rolling. Eric was dead. Carefully closing his laptop, Renard sat back. For a moment, there was nothing but fierce satisfaction. All of Vienna might be mourning – all of Portland certainly wasn't.

The next hours passed in a haze. Renard found himself reading the same page over and over again, signing off reports with no clear memories of what they said. His thoughts kept straying back to Eric. It was easy to imagine his brother lounging in the back seat, probably on the phone, trading insults with some unfortunate soul. Had there been some sort of warning? A noise? A catch in the engine? Had Eric known that he was about to die? Had he guessed why? Or had there simply been heat, pressure and then – nothing. There probably wasn't much left of him. Renard remembered his handsome brother, that arrogant grin, imagined it replaced by charred flesh and blackened bone. He hadn't had a choice. When Eric had taken Nick, no other response had been possible. Hank's knock came as a relief.

“Do you have a moment, Captain? It's about a case.”

Apparently the murders Hank had been working on had been tentatively labelled dog attacks, except Monroe and Rosalee thought that they weren't. Looking at the pictures, Renard had to agree.

“We've got a suspect, lots of priors, likes to fight his dogs. I'm thinking if you could spare an hour, we could pay him a visit. If he's Wesen, I need to know.”

The man turned out to be a Höllentier and clearly very bad news. Renard snarled his challenge, Zauberbiest out full force, hoping to provoke an attack. They didn't have enough to arrest the man otherwise and, anyway, a fight would be welcome. Ray Bolton didn't oblige. As a result, all they could do was ask a few questions and have the dogs checked.

All the same Renard found himself thinking that he ought to go out with his detectives more often. He liked police work, had chosen it as his path to control the city for a reason. Compared to Royal politics and Wesen customs there was an undeniable truth at the heart of it, something clean and clear he hadn't found in any other part of his life: They were the good guys. No matter how often he had been forced to compromised, how many times he'd bent the rules, Renard had never really let go of that. Today the thought didn't shine quite as bright as it used to.

As they went back to the car, Hank glanced back over his shoulder, caught … watching.

“So we think he did this?”

“Could be him. He's certainly got the means, but that doesn't prove anything – particularly since we can't use it in court. I suggest you keep an eye on him. The man's not a criminal mastermind. Sooner or later, he'll make a mistake.”

Not much comfort, but the best he could offer. Hank grimaced.

“Let's just hope that he does before there are any more bodies.”

For long minutes, silence stretched. Renard knew that he had to go ahead and say it. Sharing secrets went against the grain, much less potentially lethal ones such as this, but Eric had been a threat to all of them. 

“My brother is dead.”

His own voice sounded strange to his ears, the words heavy as though by saying them he was releasing something into this world. Renard shook his head. He had to be really tired to be thinking like that. Thankfully Hank's voice cut in.

“What happened?”

“His car exploded on his way to the airport. It only took place a few hours ago. As of yet they are not sure what happened.”

“But we are?”

Renard smiled thinly.

“Yes, we are.”

Not quite admitting to ordering his brother's murder. Hank nodded slowly, obviously realizing that he really didn't need to know any further details. While he might approve of taking out Nick's kidnapper as a cop he couldn't approve of what had to have been an assassination.

“So we are safe?”

“For the time being. The family will need to regroup and as long as they blame the Läufer, we should be all right. Hopefully whoever inherits Eric's place won't take such a … personal interest in Portland.”

If they were really lucky, they'd be forgotten altogether, although with a key in play that wasn't likely. When Hank offered to tell the others, Renard gratefully accepted. One such conversation was definitely enough and it didn't take a lot of imagination to picture the inevitable reactions. Gloating or sympathy – one was as bad as the other. As he parked the car, Hank once more turned to him.

“I'm sure once all of this is over Nick will appreciate what you did.”

Renard, for one, was pretty sure that once all of this was over, Nick would want nothing further to do with him. That night, however, he once more went out to the old farmhouse. He had no idea what, if anything, he was going to say, but he hadn't been able to face his empty condo. All he knew was that he needed to see Nick, to remind himself that both of them were alive and Eric was dead.

When he went into the basement, Nick seemed to be sleeping. Renard stood quietly for a moment, studying the sprawl of his body, arms and legs flung out, head tipped to one side, dark lashes sweeping pale cheeks. His T-shirt had been rucked up, exposing a stripe of flat stomach. Only the handcuffs disturbed the picture. 

Making sure to stay well out of reach, Renard drew up his chair. Instantly Nick stirred, eyes cracking open. He didn't seem surprised to see him.

“I've been wondering when you'd be back.”

Nick's voice was raspy with sleep, but his words were clear, deliberate. Renard raised his eyebrows.

“Did you miss me?”

“What if I did? I've been thinking about you, Sean.”

That was certainly … unexpected. Instantly suspicious, Renard suddenly wondered whether tonight had been an even worse idea than usual. Had he truly come here looking for – what? Comfort? Absolution? There wasn't any to be had, not here and certainly not from Nick. Only those eyes were fixed on him, dark and intense and impossible to avoid.

“You could go back with me. If you got me out of here, helped me bring the key back to Vienna – the family would be grateful. Eric can be generous. He's your brother, Sean. I'm sure he'd give you a place and you could have me – in your bed, every night. Just think about it. I'll moan for you, Sean. I'll come for you. Think about how good it'll be to fuck a Grimm. It's not too late.”

Renard suppressed a shudder as he imagined that happy little arrangement. It was a testament to Nick's desperation that he'd even suggest such a thing, he told himself. He ought to feel pity, not this familiar mix of revulsion and arousal. Nick pushed himself into a sitting position, licked his lips and, for the first time, there was something very like hesitation in his voice.

“I've never told you, but when you were fucking Juliette, I was so jealous. I couldn't stop imagining the two of you together and … I started watching you, looking at you and I … I never stopped. For a time it made me even angrier, but then I started thinking of you when I was with Juliette, when I was sleeping with her. I wasn't angry then. It felt … good. Exciting.”

Renard had to briefly close his eyes. This whole conversation was out of control. It felt as though he were walking blind, stumbling, just waiting for a pit to open up in front of him and swallow him whole. Nick would say anything to get out of here, had just proven as much. Reaching wildly, Renard grasped on the one detail he could refute with certainty.

“I never fucked Juliette.”

“I liked to think that you did.”

“It is too late. Eric is dead.”

His own voice, cold, devoid of emotion. God, he hadn't meant to say it at all, certainly not like that, like a weapon thrust into Nick's face. Renard watched with sick fascination as those blue eyes searched his face, lips parting to let out something between a moan and a sob. There ought to be rage, denial, questions – anything. Instead, all strength seemed to leave Nick's body and he drew up his knees, wrapped his arms around his shins, curling up as small as possible. Leaving would be the sensible thing to do. Instead, Renard unholstered his gun, took out the clip and placed both onto the floor. Without letting himself think about what he was doing, he took a step forward. Nick would be able to land a kick now, knees or groin, possibly breaking bone. Nothing happened. Another step. His torso was within reach, stomach and throat and head and nobody was standing by with a stun gun in case he took a hit. Danger thrilled down Renard's spine and this wasn't taking a calculated risk – this was insanity. His hand touched Nick's shoulder.

Still there was no reaction. Renard sat down next to Nick on the narrow cot, close enough to feel his warmth, the tension in his body. Thumb rubbing in soothing circles, he inhaled deeply, smelling sweat and dust and the man underneath. Perhaps there was comfort here, after all.  
After what seemed like a long time, Nick shifted, body turning minutely towards him, forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. His lips were moving, a steady stream of words muttered under his breath, the same rhythm over and over again. Renard tilted his head, straining to hear.

“I'm going to kill all of you.”

*

The Baron's head arrived on a Thursday morning. It took about an hour for everybody to meet at the farmhouse, gather around the table with the cool box on top of it. The tension was almost thick enough to cut. To say that Nick hadn't taken the news of Eric's death well was something of an understatement. He had lapsed into silent brooding, refusing to speak or to as much as move from his crouched position, but whenever they went into the basement his eyes followed them with disturbing intensity. Something had to happen and it would happen today.

When Henrietta opened the box, a pungent smell rose. Without the old fashioned clothes and the eerie sonorous voice, the Baron looked like an old man. He had clearly been conscious when he had been killed, face contorted, covered with flakes of a green, vicious-looking substance. Studying the gaping mouth, the glassy eyes, Renard allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. This was one death he didn't regret. Next to him, somebody retched. He turned to see Juliette turn pale, lips pressed together as she took a step back, then another. The realization what all of this must look like to her wasn't anything approaching comfortable. She'd only learned about Wesen a few weeks ago, perhaps seen a few of her friends woge, and now a spell had changed her boyfriend out of all recognition and the severed head in front of her was the only way to help him. Sure, she hadn't protested against the concept in theory, but to look the gruesome truth – quite literally – in the eye was something else altogether. Juliette shuddered, turned to the door.

“I'm sorry. I need a moment. Just … I'll be right back.”

She walked stiffly, obviously struggling not to run. After a second, Hank nodded at Rosalee and went after her, clearly grateful to have an excuse to escape. It was left to the rest of them to lift the head out of the box and scrape some of the green stuff onto a sheet of paper. Poking a wrinkly cheek, Monroe grimaced.

“Man, that smell! Did Meisner...?”

Renard shook his head.

“Meisner needs to lie low for a while. No, I sent a detailed description of his activities here in Portland to the Wesen council – and offered a generous donation. They were more than happy to send the head our way.”

Henrietta laughed appreciatively as she folded the paper.

“Clever boy. You are very much your mother's son, Sean. Now, I'll start working on the paste right away – and we'll need more of that sleeping powder. Rosalee, would you care to help? Everybody else, get out of the way.”

So they waited. Nick could presumably hear them downstairs, would be wondering what was going on. It was hard to believe that in a few short hours it would be over. Either Nick would be himself again, or all hope of helping him would be gone. The thought of going into that basement, gun out, with the intention to kill, was almost enough to make Renard wish they were still waiting for news. He'd pull the trigger, couldn't trust anyone else to do it. Nick deserved better – they all did – but it if everything went wrong, at least he'd make sure it was clean, quick. He owed Nick that much. Renard had never had much faith in prayer, but thinking of Henrietta's spell, the desperate hope they were clinging to, he was willing to try.

By the time everything was ready, it was evening. Hank and Juliette were back, standing together, silent. She was once more staring at the Baron's head that was sitting on top of the fridge, presiding over the room. Renard found himself thinking of the two Reapers Nick had killed, beheaded, first sign of what he might become. He had been proud of him, then. Didn't Juliette know?   
Nobody else seemed eager to go and fetch Nick, so Renard volunteered. The powder worked just as it had the first time and there was nowhere to run. Those blue eyes glazed over within seconds, but just before they fluttered shut, Renard thought he heard his own name. Nick's body was heavy in his arms as he carried him upstairs, laid him out on the kitchen table. There was something terribly final about seeing him like that, still, surrounded by the people who loved him as though this were a wake already. Reluctant to let go, Renard lingered for a moment, fingertips against Nick's palm. Henrietta brushed him aside. She woged, leaning forward, dead, milky eyes fixed on the body in front of her. Hooking her fingers into the collar of Nick's shirt, she ripped.

“The paste. Now.” 

Quickly tearing his eyes away, Renard watched Rosalee hurry to the sideboard. She placed a bowl with a thick brown goo onto the table, then lit four tall candles that had been placed in the corners. The flames flickered, flared.

“When they go out, we'll know that it worked,” Rosalee whispered , voice hushed, strained. She gave Renard a brief smile before moving to Monroe's side, leaning into him. Their fingers entwined as they faced forward, waiting, listening. Henrietta chanted as she spread the paste over Nick's chest with withered, claw-like hands – not a language Renard knew or even recognized, although there were a few words of French thrown into the mix. Death. Dream. Heart. The first candle went out. Another reddish smear across Nick's forehead, between his eyes, like dried blood. He could feel the spell's power rise and the flame of the second candle was guttering, going, gone.

Leaning over Nick, Henrietta woged, dragging wet, red fingers over his lips. Her other hand was resting over his heart, voice rising, resonating. At least the ritual didn't demand Nick be conscious for this. The third candle went out. With a low, guttural hum, Henrietta straightened, stepped around the table so that she was standing behind Nick's head, palms against his temples. Her power was a living thing, rising, spiraling, and didn't any of the others feel that? The fourth candle went out like a string being cut and the suffocating pressure of the spell went with it. Stifling a gasp, it took Renard a moment to regain his focus.   
None of the others had moved, only Henrietta was leaning heavily against the table, exhaustion plain on her face. In front of her, Nick was lying very still. His skin was almost gray beneath the sticky, red patches and, dread rising, Renard tried to discern whether his chest was moving. It felt like the floor was dropping out from under him, his own horror mirrored by the look in Rosalee's eyes.

“Is he....?”

Not like this. He had known he might lose Nick, might have to kill him even, but surely not like this, not when they had been so close to success. Juliette rushed forward, put her hands on Nick's chest, his neck, tilted his head back.

“He's not breathing!”

Monroe's breath rushed out in what sounded like a low moan and Hank cursed, sharp, heart-felt. Renard felt like screaming, but it was Henrietta's voice that cut through the air. 

“Just give it a minute.”

Juliette wasn't listening, eyes wide as she turned to the others.

“Didn't you hear me? He isn't breathing! We need to call an ambulance! We need-”

Nick's eyes snapped open. His hand shot up, catching Juliette's wrist and, torn between overwhelming relief and a fresh wave of adrenalin, Renard thought that he was about to attack. He was already going for his gun when Nick's hand dropped away and he struggled to sit up, looking around with wide, shocked eyes.

“Juliette? I – what happened to me? I feel weird.”

Everybody started talking at once. Re-holstering his gun, Renard watched the others crowd around Nick, touching his back, his shoulders, voices rising as they helped him sit, then stand: 'So glad to have you back!' 'Had us worried-' '… really weren't yourself.' 'You all right?' 'Like a different person!'

Renard briefly turned to Henrietta, who smiled, confirming that all was well. No trick, then. Only Rosalee briefly turned back.

“We're taking Nick to Monroe's. He needs clothes, food – and a shower. Do you...?”

“I'll clean up here.”

It was better this way, Renard told himself. Nick's eyes briefly caught his, widened before cutting away. There was more than one way of losing somebody. If they were lucky, they might rebuild some sort of professional relationship, be able to work together the way they had before, constantly suspicious, barely talking. If Nick managed to get past what had been done to him, what he had been made to do. If he even wanted to. Either way, there would be no more late night conversations, no more shared secrets or whispered confessions. Most of it had been lies, all of it wrong, but all the same that strange, secret togetherness had been theirs. For however short a time, it had felt as though some small part of Nick might belong to him alone. No more. 

Squaring his shoulders, Renard, nodded at Henrietta, who was also leaving. No point pondering what might have been. There was the house to be dealt with, the remnants of the ritual. Anything else would follow.


	3. Chapter 3

The following days Renard kept busy. He spent long hours at the office, politely declined Rosalee's invitation to drop by, cut off Hank's careful overtures. It was better that way, he told himself, space and time and all that. Not at all cowardice.  
As a result, the first sight of Nick leaning against his car in the parking garage of the precinct was something of a shock. Renard stopped a few yards away, stared. Shorter hair, dark jeans and shirt – no badge at the belt, he wouldn't get that back until Monday. He breathed in through his nose and, beneath the stale air, the smell of cars and exhaust gasses there was the scent of Nick. 

“Captain.”

Nick straightened as he turned to face Renard, squared his shoulders as though he were meeting a challenge. So this was what things were going to be like. Renard nodded acknowledgement, not giving anything away.

“Burkhardt.”

“Hank told you I'll be coming back to work next week.”

Not really a question. Hank had also told Renard that Nick was still staying at Monroe's, that he was himself again and everything was good. Whatever that might mean.

“He did. Of course we're all happy to have you back. We've been missing your unique .. perspective.”

Nick's mouth twisted, but he didn't flinch, kept meeting Renard's eyes, as though he were daring himself not to look away. He had always been brave.

“I'll just bet you did.”

For a few seconds silence stretched. Finally Renard took a small step forward, voice softer as he asked the next question.

“How are you, Nick?

“Great. Just great. Why wouldn't I be?”

Why, indeed. Renard almost laughed at the realization that they'd been able to be more open with each other before the spell had been broken. That last night, Nick leaning against him, allowing himself to be held. All of that was very far away now. 

Nick shifted, made himself still, obviously resisting the urge to fidget.

“The others told me that you've been paying for … things. Just let me know how much I owe you. I'll pay you back.”

Not quite what he had expected, although perhaps he should have. Of course Nick wouldn't want to owe him. Not before, certainly not now. Swallowing irritation, Renard shook his head. He appreciated money, what it could accomplish, but he didn't want that from Nick – not even if he couldn't have anything else. 

“That won't be necessary. Think of it as recompensation for what my family did.”

“It's your money, though, not your family's.”

A grudging distinction, but one Nick wouldn't have made a few weeks ago. It was something

“It's as close as you're gonna get. You don't owe me anything, Nick. I'm glad you chose to come back to work and … I'd be glad if we could put the past behind us, whatever was said or done.”

As close as he could come to saying a lot of things, but hopefully Nick would understand. Again, silence stretched. When Nick looked up again, something harsh had crept into his eyes.

“Even Innsbruck?”

That – the real reason Nick was here. Of course he would be worried. Renard kept his voice carefully neutral. 

“Local authorities are investigating, of course, but they have no idea what they are dealing with. Working theory is a break-in gone wrong – possibly involving drugs. No suspects, no leads. You're in the clear.”

Before, Nick might have protested that this wasn't what he had meant. Now he just nodded, a mixture of anger and relief flitting over his face. Renard hesitated. Unbidden, the memory of Rosalee rose. She'd offer sympathy, kindness as well as truth. Nick hadn't turned to her, though, quite clearly hadn't turned to any of his friends. Renard shook his head.

“They were dead the moment the family learned their identity. If Eric hadn't sent you, it would have been someone else.”

Cold comfort, but all he had to offer. Nick's fists clenched.

“I know. I know that.”

“Eric has paid.”

It wasn't enough, couldn't be, but all the same fierce satisfaction leaped into Nick's eyes. Both men smiled, sharing a quick flash of understanding. Sometimes revenge was all that mattered. It was, Renard suddenly realized, as though his brother had turned into something connecting them, hatred and loss both. Nick's smile faded quickly, though. He jerked his eyes away, tongue darting out to wet his lips even as he nodded.

“I'll see you on Monday, then.”

*

It rapidly became clear, however, that Nick's return to work was anything but unproblematic. First it had been a Klaustreich brought in for questioning with a sprained back. He turned out to be connected to one of their cases, a series of robberies resulting in at least one death, so nobody complained too much. Then there had been a Ziegevolk with a broken nose, who Hank swore had been trying her special brand of magic on them. A Maushertz had followed, moving gingerly, clutching his stomach, too terrified to even complain.

As a result, Hank's request to meet at the spice shop this evening, didn't altogether come as a surprise. Rosalee greeted Renard at the door, immediately turned the sign to 'closed' after he entered. Hank was already there and Juliette was in the back of the room, arms crossed defensively in front of her chest. Monroe, thankfully, was absent to deal with some sort of critical clock emergency. Greetings were exchanged, then uncomfortable silence took over. Finally Hank cleared his throat.

“We're worried about Nick. We were hoping to talk to you, Captain. Not as Nick's captain, but-”

Renard lifted his hand, smiling to hide avid curiosity. He hadn't exchanged a private word with Nick since the latter had accosted him in the parking garage, had had to read between the lines of official reports to get as much as an inkling of what was really happening.

“Of course. We're not here officially. How is Nick doing?”

“That's just it. We don't know,” Rosalee said quietly, busying herself with some bottles and boxes on the counter in an obvious attempt to hide apprehension. When she looked up, her eyes were shadowed by worry. “He won't talk to us. We all tried, but he just shuts down, won't say anything other than that he is fine, or goes to the trailer. Well, he seems all right, mostly, a bit quiet, maybe, but-”

“Then he lashes out.” Hank's deep voice, carefully neutral. “Not so much at us – mostly at work, when he feels physically threatened.”

Renard nodded, trying to fit this new information into a half-formed picture. He didn't like any of it. Nick was supposed to be getting better, to reclaim his life. Not … this. Of course he wouldn't find it easy to confide in Hank or Juliette, who knew next to nothing about the Wesen-world even now. Rosalee was another matter altogether, however, as was Monroe, no matter how difficult Renard's personal relationship with the Blutbad might be. When he pointed out as much, he was met with strained silence. Renard looked from one to the other.

“I understand that there is reason to worry and I appreciate being kept up to date, but is there any particular course of action you're suggesting? You know that if there's anything I can do to help-”

Juliette all but exploded forward, mouth set into a thin line, eyes blazing.

“Oh, you've done quite enough. You and that brother of yours!”

“Juliette-” Renard faltered. There was nothing he could think of to say, no way to refute her accusation. What had happened to Nick had been Eric's doing, but his brother would have never taken such an interest if it hadn't been for Renard's involvement.

“I want him back, you hear me?!” Juliette's voice all but broke. “I just want my boyfriend back!”

There was nothing he could offer her. Renard forced himself to meet Juliette's eyes, remembering their past obsession, guiltily aware of everything that had happened since then. Thankfully, Hank stepped in. He put his arm around her shoulders, steadying her.

“We just wanted you to be aware, Captain. Nick needs a little time to get back on his feet. He should have a life when he does so, don't you agree?”

A job, too, presumably. Feigning a calm he didn't feel, Renard spent some more time listening to a troubling list of concerns, did his best to exude optimism. Nick just needed time. Considering everything he'd been put through, he was doing exceedingly well returning to work so soon. Of course they couldn't expect things to go back to normal right away. They had to be patient. Renard shuddered at how weak his words sounded to his own ears. Thankfully nobody else seemed to notice.

When he finally made his escape, Rosalee accompanied him to the car and handed him another batch of tea. She looked up at him, eyes serious.

“What about you? Are you all right?”

Renard hesitated, not quite sure what to make of this question. He chose the safest answer.

“Well, I haven't heard from my family yet, which is a good sign. I'll let you know if anything comes up that might concern you or Monroe.”

“That's very considerate of you. But I was asking you how you were. It's been weird, not hearing from you at all, after, well, after everything.”

Rosalee's lip's twitched like she was suppressing laughter. After a moment, Renard, too, smiled. It was funny, in a way.

“I'm all right, Rosalee. Thank you. The past weeks have been tough on all of us, haven't they?”

“They have. And you should come by more often. I know that you're just as worried about Nick as the rest of us.”

*

The next days proved that there was indeed reason for concern and, as a result, Renard found himself forced to seek out yet another old acquaintance. Karen came to meet him at the door of her office, a sign of respect, although her stance was anything but inviting.

“Sean. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you.”

Renard smiled anyway, stepped closer so that she had to tilt up her head to maintain eye contact. She was tall for a woman, wouldn't be used to that.

“It is always a pleasure, Karen – regardless of the circumstances.”

She huffed and, with an impatient gesture, turned to a group of chairs that had been arranged by the window.

“Oh, do sit down. Let's not play games. You're here to ask me not to press charges against that Grimm.”

Direct. Well, he'd been expecting that much. Beneath her coiffed hair and expertly applied make up, Karen was all but bristling, her Woge only a shiver away. Renard kept his voice conciliatory.

“I did keep your name out of the papers when Leo's games went off the rail.”

“And I never held his death against you! We are a modern family. I don't hold with what my brother did, although I remember you didn't hesitate to take a cut. We are talking about my son! Calvin never hurt anyone and then your Grimm shows up, asking questions – breaking his arm!”

Her Woge was on her now, full Löwen, a lioness defending her young. Renard sat very still, knowing that if he answered in kind he'd have a fight on his hands. He didn't relish the thought of having to pull a gun on her, the way he had on Leo Taymor.

“I know, Karen. I understand that my detective was out of line. All I'm asking is that you consider the larger picture and allow me to handle the situation.”

She growled at that, but leaned back, Woge receding. Tucking a stray strand of hair back into place she made a visible effort to calm herself. There were only so many prominent Wesen families in town and when he had first arrived in Portland, Renard had made it his business to know all of them – know about them. Karen would be aware of that, of course, would have made inquiries of her own. Now she fixed him with angry eyes.

“I won't say that you haven't been good for this city. Nobody ever complained about you being unjust or failing to respond to trouble. It is not unpleasant to have somebody in charge we know we can turn to, somebody who understands. This business with the Grimm, though. There have been rumors, lately. People say that something went wrong with him.”

People were saying that, weren't they? Renard leaned forward and turned fully towards Karen, inclining his head the way he did when he addressed the public, needed people to trust him. 

“You say that I do not fail to respond to trouble – I will not fail to do so now. Let's just agree that no permanent damage was done. As for Calvin... he'll graduate next year, won't he? He seems to be a good kid, but he's bound to act out one time or another. Young men generally do and Löwen – well, I'm sure you remember your brother at his age. Allowances could be made. Within reasonable limits, of course.”

Slowly, bit by bit, the fight went out of Karen's body. Eventually she nodded.

“If we don't press charges now. And I have your word that you'll control the Grimm? He won't come after us?”

“I'll send a different detective to talk to Calvin – in your presence, of course. All we need is for him to answer a few questions.”

Another nod, more decisive than before. Any relief Renard might have felt, however, was swept away by the realization that he did, in fact, have Nick to deal with. 

Back at the precinct Renard took a moment to hang his coat and check his mails before calling Nick into his office. He waited until the latter was seated. Then, deliberately mild:

“Is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

Instantly, anger kindled in Nick's eyes. 

“There's nothing to tell. He attacked me. He's Löwen! I just defended myself.”

“A kid, Nick? No priors, not even a suspect. Are you really trying to tell me that you couldn't question Calvin Schmidt without breaking his arm?”

His words didn't seem to be making any impression. Nick was glaring at him, sullen, quiet. Something was going on. Did Hank know what was going on in that head? Did anyone? Suppressing his own anger, Renard felt his way forward. 

“If the family decides to press charges, you won't just have to explain yourself to me.”

“They wouldn't dare! They know I'm a Grimm.”

For the second time that day, Renard found himself thinking that if he woged now, there'd be a fight. Nick looked like he imagined a Grimm of old, lips peeled back, feral. Was this what Eric had bred? Beyond his control now, but unleashed, dangerous? Renard's mouth went dry, the sudden, irrational instinct to break and run mixed with … something else. He watched Nick carefully.

“What if they do? Are you going to kill them?” 

Nick flinched back at that. His mouth worked, fury chased away by shock. Not Eric's perfect weapon now. 

“No! No, of course not. I didn't mean-”

He broke off, clearly unable to explain what he had, in fact, meant. It might be enough. Renard hoped it was. Looking at Nick, his sudden pallor, he would have given a lot to be able to talk to him, really talk. Not possible. What would he say anyway? I'm worried about you? You can trust me? Nick couldn't. Of course he couldn't. Renard briefly looked down, steeling himself. When he looked up again, he was in full control again. 

“You're off the case. Stay away from the family - Hank can finish this one on his own. And I'll join your next investigation.”

Nick's smile was anything but happy, a mere baring of teeth.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever you say. Can I go now?”

Suppressing a sigh of frustration, Renard nodded, gestured for the door. He knew he shouldn't say anything else, that it wouldn't do any good coming from him, but...

“Have you thought about getting help? Talking to somebody?”

Already on his way to the door, Nick paused, eyes narrowing.

“Who would I talk to? You?”

It had clearly been meant as a barb, a cruel reminder of where they stood. Nick faltered, took a step back, then another. He turned and left without waiting for an answer.  
When he was alone, Renard reached blindly for the nearest file. It turned out to be Hank's final report regarding the case he had been worked on together. No arrest had been made, the only suspect an old woman nobody would believe capable of a violent murder spree. She was Wesen, of course, but they could hardly use that in court. After reading the first two paragraphs, Renard gave up and just signed the damned thing.

 

The case started as a break-in gone wrong, simple enough on the surface. That house seemed a wealthy enough place, all dark furniture and polished wooden floors. The place was a mess, though, drawers pulled out, their contents scattered. In several places they had to step around broken china. The murder itself had taken place in a narrow hallway beyond the kitchen. Blood was splattered across the walls and ceiling, pooling on the floor, tracked in footprints towards the door. The body was young, male, boyish face contorted in terror and, most arrestingly one of its arms was missing. Careful not to step into the blood, Renard discovered the severed limb a few feet away. Nick swallowed convulsively, but moved to squat next to the body, studied first the gaping wound, then a large footprint next to the body. His voice sounded steady enough.

“Looks like it's been torn off. That'd take a lot of strength. Somebody big – those are at least size 15.”

Having arrived at pretty much the same conclusions, Renard nodded.

“Yes. Probably even bigger.”

Nick stood up, stepped close, voice too low for anyone else to overhear: “I think we might be dealing with a Siegbarste again.”

Renard cast a shrewd glance at Nick. Another suspicion confirmed. After all, there were few creatures capable of beating a Grimm at hand to hand combat, even comparatively new ones.

“Oleg Stark, wasn't it? I hope you've still got that elephant gun?”

An almost imperceptible nod, as though Nick was already regretting what little he had given away. Renard took another look at the body.

“Let's not jump to conclusions. Strength alone doesn't tell us anything. Have the parents arrived? We are going to need a list of all the things that are missing.”

They spent the rest of the day talking to the ME and making the rounds in Portland's pawn shops. Perhaps not surprisingly, nothing turned up. After all, only a fool would try to sell stolen goods tied to a murder without letting at least some time pass. Nick seemed, if not quite relaxed, confident enough, asking the right questions, drawing the right conclusions. Only occasionally, in the enclosed silence of Renard's car, did he grow quiet, eyes fixed on some point beyond the windshield, only occasionally flicking towards the drivers' seat with sharp consideration.   
By the time they were ready to return to the precinct, dusk was falling. Nick was silent for most of the ride, clearly lost in thought as he looked out of the window. When Renard would have pulled into the street that led to the precinct, however, he suddenly turned his head.

“Don't. Keep driving.”

A brief glance at Nick was enough to make Renard's stomach clench. He drove straight when he should have turned, kept his voice calm, matter of fact.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't care. Just keep driving.”

He did. They passed through familiar streets, remembered mostly because of the crimes committed there. A murder in this house, drug arrests at that corner. The car felt safe, though, a warm haven from the outside world. Finally Nick's voice cut through the gathering darkness.

“Everybody keeps telling me I wasn't myself. I was, you know, in most ways. Different priorities, sure, but the rest of it? It's like - they all think I was being tortured or something. Maybe I was, at first. There was a Hexenbiest. I don't remember a lot of it, though. It didn't seem important. When I was brought to Eric, I felt … normal. Confused, angry. Then he started talking to me and the things he said seemed to make so much sense. I found myself wanting to help him. When he asked me to do something, I wanted to do that as well. Whatever it was. But it wasn't like I had no will of my own. I could refuse to a degree, argue with him. I did, in the beginning. God, I should have...”

Monroe and Rosalee talking in low voices, wondering what was being done to Nick, trading horror stories about Royal dungeons they had probably heard from their parents. Juliette and Hank, listening wide-eyed. Renard hadn't corrected their assumptions even after Sebastien had told him Nick was allowed freely, sent on missions. Remembering his own magic-induced infatuation, he shuddered. A web drawn around his mind, barely noticeable at first, but tightening until he couldn't tell where the spell ended and he began. Nick would have some natural resistance as a Grimm, but for all his arrogance, Eric hadn't been stupid. He wouldn't have risked himself, if he had doubted the result. Thoughts racing, Renard picked through the new information.

“He told you that you shouldn't let yourself be held back any longer, to be what you were always meant to be.”

“A Grimm,” Nick agreed, spitting out the word like a curse.

Renard shook his head: “What he thought a Grimm should be like. He was curious about that, when we talked.”

“Does it matter? I liked it. I didn't even try to stop myself. Maybe he was right. Maybe that's what I am. What do you think that kid saw, when he looked at me?”

“The stuff of his nightmares, I imagine.”

That got him a harsh, startled laugh. It was completely dark outside now and suddenly Renard knew where to go. He turned left, heading away from the city center. Nick didn't seem to be paying any attention, face as empty as it had been when he had learned of Eric's death. Renard stole another glace.

“So you killed for my brother. Did you enjoy it?”

A tiny shake of head.

“The killing itself, no. I just … the fighting. The not holding back. Being better, stronger than everybody else. I was proud of myself when Eric was happy with me. He said to please myself, just tell his people what I wanted, anything I wanted. I said- I don't even remember what. Something stupid. Food, or a movie I'd been thinking of watching. Eric laughed like I didn't even know what to ask for. I guess I didn't.”

Renard wasn't sure he wanted to know just what Eric would have considered a suitable reward for his Grimm's first kill. In the changing light, it was hard to tell, but he thought Nick was flushing.

“He started taking me to places. There was this private club. Just drinks, he said. Everybody was beautiful, the women... I said no. I did. And then I didn't.”

So that had been what Eric had meant. Renard knew his brother, all jaded sophistication and cruel whim, accustomed to the kind of excesses an unlimited amount of money and a total disregard for laws or social conventions bred. Nick had been … not innocent exactly. Wholesome, in a way. Eric would have seen that as a challenge, all the more because he had known- Shaking off that thought, Renard forced himself to focus on the road in front of him as the city gave way to roads.

“You took your pleasure when it was offered. That's not a crime.”

“Is that what I'm going to tell Juliette? I'm sorry, but I just couldn't help having sex with several women. And men. In ways I never- You know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Perhaps not in those exact words...”

A little fainter than he had intended. Men? Renard was glad he was able to stop the car, kill the engine. Nick started, looked around.

“Here? You drove us here?”

The house was all but derelict now, hadn't been lived in since Nick had killed its last owner. More than two years ago now, the beginning of everything. Renard shrugged.

“It seems like a good place for first times.”

“Does it now.”

Nick got out of the car anyway, took a few steps towards the porch.

“He was Blutbad. God, I'd only just met Monroe. He led me here and I … ended up killing the guy in his living room.”

Renard followed, looking up at the dark house. Red jackets, he remembered, a prison in the basement. 

“You saved a little girl. We wouldn't have found her without you. Not alive.”

Probably not at all. So much had happened since then. Nick seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he turned, gave Renard a sharp look.

“We fought here. I wanted to hurt you, then, make you pay. For a time I thought I wanted to kill you...”

Renard closed his eyes, briefly lost in the memory of that other night. The shock of Nick's first blow, pain and adrenalin, excitement more than fear. He had been trying to hold back, not inflict permanent damage, but there had been something wild about Nick, something out of control. Anything might have happened.  
When he opened his eyes, Nick was right in front of him, the same reckless glint in his eyes. The kiss was soft, almost gentle, but when Renard opened his mouth to protest Nick's tongue slipped inside and everything was heat. It was easy to lose himself in the softness of those lips, slick slide of tongue against tongue and shared breath. With a sharp, thrilling nip of teeth Nick pulled back.

“How's that for a first time? Although it wasn't really, was it?”

“Nick-”, Renard broke off, acutely aware of how shaken he sounded. Nick must have noticed as well, because he grinned, wicked and triumphant and altogether too much like Eric's creature, sent to torment him. Had any of that been real? No, he couldn't think about that, not now. Down that road lay madness.

The second kiss was filled with more purpose, Nick rising on tiptoes, slotting their mouths together. It was all Renard could do to bring up his hand, grip Nick's upper arm to force some space between them. Finally he found his voice.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Nick seemed genuinely startled, eyes wide as he looked up.

“What you want. You admitted as much. There's no reason why we shouldn't.”

Renard barely managed to suppress a snarl, the Woge that would have come with it. Whatever this was about, his wishes most certainly didn't play into it. He studied Nick's face, flushed, almost feverish.

“No, you're not going to pin this on me. What about you, Nick? What about Juliette?”

She would be at home right now, in the house she and Nick used to share. Renard could almost picture her in the soft light of the living room, hair drawn back from her face as she sat on the sofa, legs drawn up, a glass of wine at her elbow. No reason at all. Nick seemed considerably less sure of himself now, eyes cutting away.

“Oh, Juliette. She's wonderful, of course. So understanding. Except now I can't talk to her – again.”

Renard still had hold of Nick's arm, didn't let go even when the latter would have pulled away. He pushed on, unrelenting.

“Why? You seem to be talking just fine.”

Nick looked around wildly, as though for a distraction, for something to fight. There was only Renard, facing him steadily. 

“That's you. You … know. It's her I can't talk to. I try, but I just … can't.”

Not good enough.

“Why?”, Renard asked again, driving to the heart of the matter with cruel precision. Something close to a sob escaped from Nick's throat.

“Because she's Juliette and you're-”

“What? What am I?”

“You're no better than me!”

Nick paled, opened his mouth as though he would call back the words. It shouldn't have hurt. Reminding himself that this was no worse than he had expected, Renard relaxed his grip, stepped away. Both men were breathing heavily, faced each other with weary resignation. Mouth twisting into a wry smile, Renard shrugged.

“That about sums it up, doesn't it? Well, we ought to get back. I still have work waiting at the precinct.” 

The enclosed space of the car seemed almost claustrophobic, too many sources of conflict in too small a space. Nick finally broke the silence. 

“I still think we might be dealing with a Siegbarste.”

Said quietly, almost like an offering. Back to business, then. Renard focused on the road, kept his voice neutral. 

“Even if we are, that's not going to help us find him.”

“The break-in, then. He must have picked the house somehow, cased out the neighborhood. Somebody might have noticed something. No signs of forced entry, either. The guy knows what he's doing. If I had to guess, I'd say he's been at it for months, maybe years before his luck ran out and that kid surprised him. We might find a pattern.”

Renard nodded. At least Nick was starting to think like a cop again.

“Check the database, then see if there've been any recent cases that might fit.”

The silence was less oppressive after that. After a while Nick leaned forward, started to fiddle with the radio and they ended up spending the rest of the drive arguing about stations. Only as they rode up in the elevator did Nick once more turn to Renard.

“Sean... Do you ever wonder whether it's been worth it? What you did, all of you, to get me back?”

Later, Renard thought that it was the unexpected use of his first name that for once made him answer without thinking: “No. I don't.”

Nick's answering smile was just as quick, open, the kind Renard hadn't received in more than half a year. Then the elevator doors swung open and the moment was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day brought several new developments. There had been a number of suspicious burglaries in the vicinity and, more alarmingly, a sewer worker was attacked on the job and could only be retrieved by his colleagues dead, severely battered and missing a leg. Renard drove home to change before meeting Nick at the scene and in the dark, grimy rankness of the tunnels he was glad he had taken the time. He felt slightly ridiculous in the bright orange jacket and helmet they were all forced to wear, but that passed quickly upon descending into the sewers.  
There was light along the main walkways at least, but lesser tunnels kept branching off, their dark, hungry mouths making it more difficult to discount Wu's horror stories of alligators below the city. Nick stopped as they reached the blockage that had brought the victim down here, looked dubiously at the interlocked pile of junk and wood, the fetid water beyond. The beam of his flashlight ghosted over the walls, the ceilings.

“Looks like blood. Over there, too.”

Climbing the blockage proved trickier than it looked and they had to stay close to the wall after, do their best to find secure footing. Renard turned to the sewer worker accompanying them. 

“Has anybody else been down here lately?”

The man shook his head.

“That's just it – we don't come here unless there's a problem. That stuff might have been piling up for years.”

Nick was bending down, picking through the debris. He picked up a backpack, holding it into the light before tossing it to Wu.

“Somehow I don't think so. This looks kind of new to me. We're going to need whatever we can find in here.”

That provoked an expressive grimace, followed by a muttered 'oh joy'. Renard couldn't blame Wu. Right at this moment, he was entertaining decidedly nostalgic memories of his office back at the precinct. Nick, on the other hand, was all but straining forward, a Grimm hunting.

“What's down there? He might have gone that way, right? You said he heard something?”

Or whatever had killed him might have come from there. The sewer worker looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“More tunnel. There should be an intersection somewhere ahead. For more details, you'd have to check the maps.”

“I will. Let's take a look right now.”

There was nothing to do but follow Nick as he started forward. Renard reminded himself that whatever might be hiding down here was unlikely to be more dangerous than a Grimm and a Zauberbiest, that surely he'd been through worse, but all the same Wu's scream made him go for his gun. They ran back only to find the sergeant half in the water, clutching the missing leg. Renard grimaced, helped Wu to his feet.

“Well, at least whatever tore off his leg, didn't eat it. Let's get this to the M.E.”

 

Back at the precinct, it took some time to catalogue the various backpacks and purses they had retrieved. Some could be matched to recent robberies, but it wasn't until they found the library card of the first victim, Renard was ready to concede the cases were connected. Something didn't ring true, though. Not a Siegbarste, not down in those tunnels. He said as much as they met in the privacy of his office to discuss the investigation, come up with some kind of theory. Nick was pacing, obviously eager to go and fight something.

“What, then? The M.E. said the bite most closely matched that of an alligator.”

Renard grimaced.

“Well, don't tell Wu. We'll never hear the end of it.”

Nick was looking at him, probably expecting more of an answer, but Renard didn't offer anything. He wanted to see where this was going. Finally Nick sighed, stilled, some of the Grimm draining out of him.

“I'm going to call Monroe.”

Busying himself with some papers, Renard nodded. He did his best to give the impression of not listening avidly as Nick retreated into a corner, talked in a low voice. 'Yeah, in the sewers.' 'With the captain.' 'A what? Can you spell that?' 'Meet there?' 'She said to what?' Nick was frowning when he turned back, gripping his phone tightly.

“So Monroe says we might be dealing with a Gelumcaedus. We're going to do some research tonight. Rosalee wants to know – she asks whether you'd like to join us. Monroe is cooking.”

Renard's eyebrows rose. He was on reasonably good terms with Rosalee, had talked to her once or twice since Nick had come back to work, but this kind of invitation was unexpected. His first instinct was to look for a catch.

“It's kind of her to ask, but I still have a lot of work on my desk. I think-”

“I'd like you to come.”

It was all Renard could do not to exclaim in shock. Nick wanted him there? At his friends' place? To presumably consult his Grimm-books over dinner?

“If that's the case, I'll gladly make time,” he finally managed. “Should I bring anything?”

“That's fine. Is it all right to meet there around eight? I need to fetch some stuff. You've got the address, right?”

At Renard's nod, Nick saw himself out with a decidedly cheerful promise to see him later. It was probably a bit late to ask what on earth was going on.

Renard had been to Monroe's only once, bringing news about Nick he hadn't wanted to discuss on the phone, but he remembered the place well. Warm light shone through the stained glass window set into the front door – the picture of a wolf, a welcome reminder of the nature of the house's owner. Blutbad. Dangerous.  
Monroe answered the door himself, visibly taken aback although he must have been expecting Renard. For a few seconds they faced each other, then almost simultaneously, both men nodded, exchanging curt greetings. As though on cue, Rosalee appeared, rescuing them from further awkwardness. Her smile seemed real enough and she laughingly brushed aside Renard's attempt to thank her for the invitation. 

“We're happy to have you. It makes sense to work things out together, doesn't it? Anyway, Nick should be here shortly. If you don't mind, you could help me set the table?”

Next to her Monroe looked like he might have objected, but he clearly thought better of it and retreated into the kitchen. Helping Rosalee mostly consisted of watching her go about her business, although occasionally Renard got to hold some plates or pieces of cutlery. Around the room several clocks were ticking and the sound of a knife on a chopping board drifted over from the kitchen, making the scene seem utterly domestic, a glimpse into someone else's life. Rosalee looked at him as she put down the last plate, eyes curious.

“So things are going well at the precinct? How's Hank?”

Instantly alert, Renard wondered how much Nick had told his friends. Probably not the whole truth, all things considering. He decided to play it safe. 

“Busy. I needed him to finish up on another case he's been working on. I hope you don't mind my stepping in, but I don’t think Nick ought to be working alone just yet.”

“Not at all. It’s kind of you to look out for him. Nick is holding up well, but he’s been through so much. We’re all trying to help.”

Faced with Rosalee’s unwavering smile, Renard suddenly felt uncomfortable. Kind. Not really. He kept his face impassive as he handed her the glasses. She continued, oblivious: “By the way, your friend Henrietta has been coming to the shop to pick up her orders in person. I suppose I ought to feel honored.”

Not exactly a surprising development, now that Renard thought about it. Clearly, he hadn't been paying attention.

“You're good at your job. She'll value that. And the two of you seemed to get along well.”

“I guess we are. Anyway, we've been talking and Henrietta … she asked whether I knew how you paid for her help. She suggested I might want to tell Nick.”

He definitely should have been paying attention. The last thing Renard needed was to hand Nick more ammunition. It was one thing to thwart Eric's machinations in order to protect his own interests or even to admit to lust, but whatever had possessed him to sell his blood in order to secure Henrietta's services was … something else altogether. He breathed out slowly, steadily.

“Did you?”

Rosalee shook her head.

“It didn't seem right – not without checking with you, first. I think Henrietta meant well, though.”

Renard suppressed the urge to snarl. A Hexenbiest meaning well – not what anyone would call a comforting notion.

“Henrietta shouldn't meddle.”

There was a gleam of amusement in Rosalee's eyes, quickly hidden as she looked down to check the table.

“She's your friend. Sometimes friends meddle.”

Renard might have argued that Henrietta was his mother's friend, not his – quite a difference – and whatever she thought she knew didn't give her the right to act behind his back. That, however, would have probably led to other questions he didn't really care to answer.  
Suddenly a voice called out, making both of them start. A second later Nick stuck his head through the door. He couldn't have heard anything, Renard told himself, not coming in through the hall.

“I brought the books. Do we eat first?”

Rosalee grinned at the plaintive note in Nick's question.

“I think we better had. We've all had a long day and I, for one, can't think on an empty stomach.”

Dinner turned out to be a vegetable casserole and fresh rolls. Renard half listened as the conversation flowed easily from old clocks to weird customers to the new coffee shop Nick had discovered. Soon he found himself loosening his tie, taking a third helping even though he knew he shouldn't. Even Monroe laughed at his description of their adventures in the sewers and the difficulties of finding rubber boots his size. Nobody mentioned the events of the past months.   
Eventually they cleared the table and Nick brought in a heavy-looking gym bag. Renard held his breath as book after book was pulled out, thick, leather-bound volumes filled with spidery handwriting, the kind he had seen only briefly when he had broken into Marie Kessler's trailer. Grimm-books. The temptation to reach out and touch was almost overwhelming, but he waited until Nick was done sorting through the pile, handing out the ones he thought most promising.

“Let's start with these. Shout, if you find anything that looks like it might live in the sewers and likes to tear off limbs.”

The pages held countless Wesen, drawings as well as descriptions, stories of personal encounters, most of them lethal. Most, Renard had at least heard off, some he hadn't, and it was difficult to focus on the task at hand and merely scan the headlines. So much history here. Grimms hunting, dispensing justice or merely killing any Wesen they could get a hold of.   
There was an entire section on Hexenbiests, none of it flattering. A scribbled note in the margins even mentioned the possibility of taking one's power with the blood of a Grimm. Renard paused as Adalind's face swam in front of his mind's eye. He had tried to reach out to her when he had gone to Vienna after Nick, but she had been very much his brother's mistress, comfortably ensconced in his favor, claiming the child she was carrying was Eric's, could only be Eric's. Renard had believed her then, had wanted to, since it had made the choices he had been forced to make that much easier. Even though, he couldn't help but wonder what story Adalind would tell now with her protector dead and her pregnancy too far along to hide. Either way she was carrying royal blood and the child, once born, if born – No, he wouldn't go there. It was too late anyway. Last Renard had heard, his father had taken an interest, pretty much negating any options he might have had. At least Eric hadn't had a wife. 

“I've got it! Gelumcaedus right?” 

Nick's voice rose excitedly. They gathered around to read and it was easy to see that this, something like this, taken place countless times: The easy back and forth of the conversation, questions and answers, speculations and exclamations. One of the oldest Wesen, terrifyingly strong with a grip all but impossible to break. At the description of a vambrace, Nick lifted his head, looked straight at Renard.

“I think I've got one of those at the trailer.”

He didn't bother to feign ignorance, ask what trailer they were talking about. There didn't seem much to be gained, at this point. Monroe's nervously licked his lips, eyes flicking between Nick and Renard. 

“Dude, we didn't tell him. I swear we didn't.”

“Don't worry, I know you didn't. I think he's known for some time, haven't you, Captain?”

Renard nodded, confirmation as much as admission, met Nick's eyes. He thought he saw something like approval. 

“It wasn't difficult to trace – at least not until you moved it.”

After a moment, Nick turned back to the open book. He produced a map of the sewers and unfolded it, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. 

“All right, so working theory is a Gelumcaedus. I had Wu mark the approximate locations of the break-ins and robberies and this,” he pointed at a red circle, “is where the sewer worker was killed.”

Monroe bent over the map, trying the marks, the lines between them.

“Looks like he's using the tunnels to move around. He might have some kind of lair down there.”

Renard had been thinking much along the same lines.

“The sewer worker wasn't robbed. His death doesn't make any sense, unless-”

“Unless he got too close. Right. We need to get back down there, see what we can find now that we have an idea what we're dealing with.”

There was a definite note of excitement in Nick's voice, leaving no doubt that he didn't mean to waste any time. Watching him closely it was easy to detect the tension in his body, the way his fists clenched. As a result, goodbye was a somewhat hurried affair. They gathered up the books and went to their separate cars. Nick briefly turned back.

“I'm picking up the vambrace first. Just follow my car.”

Pick up the vambrace … from the trailer? Renard's head was reeling as he started the engine, but he knew better than to question his luck. Could it really be this easy?  
The drive took about twenty minutes and, at its end, the trailer loomed, a dark, familiar shape surrounded by grasping trees. Nick went in first, switched on the lights. Renard didn't follow immediately. Little though he liked to admit it, there was something about the trailer that made him uneasy, a vague impression that he didn't belong, wasn't welcome. Did Monroe feel the same way? Did Rosalee? Or was it just that the first time he had come here he had been breaking in, looking to steal something he had no right to? Renard breathed out, stepped across the threshold. Everything was as he remembered: There was a comfortable looking couch heaped with pillows, a table, trunks and cupboards containing books, weapons, artefacts and poisons gathered by generations of Grimms. 

Nick was rummaging through a large chest set with iron bands, briefly glancing over his shoulder as he heard Renard step closer.

“Have you been in here?”

Deliberately casual, as though he had already guessed the answer. Renard shrugged.

“Once. I was looking for the key. I never came back.”

He might have, if the trailer hadn't been moved. He might have done worse. Abruptly Nick straightened.

“I've got it!”

Under other circumstances, the vambrace would have looked like nothing so much as a movie prop, all embossed leather and metal, but in that place, in the hands of a Grimm, it was obviously a weapon, undeniably dangerous. Nick turned it in his hands, then held it out, eyes bright, challenging.

“Do you want it?”

“I'll stick to my gun.”

Instinctive denial. This wasn't his heritage. Renard watched Nick slide the stiff leather over his wrist, tighten the string and flex his hand. He drew in a sharp breath, when, with a clearly audible 'snick' a blade shot out. Neither of them moved. Nick was staring at the gleaming metal, mouth thinning into a harsh line. His fist clenched.

“Nick?”

No reaction. Renard would have given a lot to know what Nick was seeing right now, what memories he was reliving. Nothing pleasant.

“Nick!”

It happened too fast to react. Nick turned, hurled himself against Renard, the force of his movement propelling both of them against one of the cupboards, making its contents rattle. The hand with the vambrace was on Renard's shoulder, the other clenched into the lapels of his jacket.

“I killed them.”

Innsbruck, sever violence with an edged weapon. There had been a lot of blood. Slowly, carefully, Renard brought up his hand, cupped Nick's face, tracing his cheekbone.

“You did.”

“When we read about the Gelumcaedus all I could think of was that finally there's something to fight. I am-”

Nick broke off, drew a shuddering breath. He swayed forward, and, out of the corner of his eye, Renard caught a metallic glint. The knife was still out and, with a rush of adrenalin, the awareness of the weapon, its dangerous proximity, spread through his body. He wanted to push Nick away. He wanted to lean in, feel cold metal against his neck. A Grimm. It was impossible to say which of them moved first. Nick made a small noise, lips yielding and there was nothing tentative about this kiss, nothing gentle. It was good and wrong and enough to drive a sharp stab of arousal down Renard's spine and into his gut. He heard another click, hoped it meant that the blade had been retracted as he brought one leg forward, used the leverage to spin them both around. It was two steps to the table, easy to hoist Nick up until he was half-sitting. Renard gripped the edge of the tabletop, anchoring both of them.

“Tell me.”

“I'm sick of it. I'm sick of feeling like I ought to apologize all the time. I'm sick of trying to be that person everybody remembers. I hate the way they look at me. 'Poor Nick.' It makes me want to scream.”

Briefly closing his eyes, Renard thought of the cheerful ease of tonight's dinner. How much of that had been bought by the careful evasion of any reference to what had happened to Nick? Had they really thought Nick would be able to just move on, put aside what had happened like a bad dream, shadows on the wall? He remembered his own helpless rage when he had learned what Eric had done, watching that plane take off and knowing where it was heading. Nick's voice was little more than a whisper. 

“I'm so fucked up. I get angry at my friends for trying to be there for me and you – I don't even trust you, but you're the only one who doesn't make me feel sorry for myself.”

There was no answer to that, nothing to make things better. Renard kept his mouth shut, didn't say what he desperately wanted to: That he had known Eric, known what he had been capable of, and yet failed to guard against him. He was the one who ought to have known better, ought to have realized what his brother's presence in Portland meant. Nick didn't need to hear that, though, didn't need the burden of another man's guilt.

They stood quietly, all but resting against each other. Slowly, gradually some of the tension drained out of Nick's body and he leaned back, lifted his head.

“We've got to get going.”

Renard took a small step back, put some distance between them. He was stopped abruptly by Nick's hand on his tie. Those blue eyes narrowed, studied him.

“You weren't planning on wearing that into the sewers, were you?”

Mouth going dry, Renard shook his head. He felt those clever fingers work on the knot, then, with an audible hiss, the silk slid free, gentle pressure snaking around his nape. Nick was still watching him closely, head tilted as though he were considering a puzzle.

“Jacket?”

Again Renard mutely shook his head. He stood still as his jacket was slipped off his shoulders and laid aside. When Nick started to unbutton the collar of his shirt, however, he caught his wrist, the one with the vambrace.

“I was actually planning to wear the shirt.”

Lips twitching upwards, Nick nodded, eyes flitting towards the door even as he rested the tips of his fingers against the hollow at the base of Renard's throat.

“You better had – since you already turned down the vambrace.”

They really did need to get going. Renard was glad that they had taken two cars. He needed the time to think, get a grip before they descended into darkness and danger. Nick, too, seemed to have used the drive to piece himself back together, Grimm and man both. He wordlessly took the lead, climbing into the sewers with quick, decisive movements. They made their way through the maze of tunnels to the point where the worker had been killed, then pressed on, moving slower now, more cautiously. At one point there might have been footsteps, a shadow – or just dripping water. Abruptly Nick stopped, lifted his hand.

“Could you be quiet for a moment?”

Renard watched curiously as Nick took a few steps forward then stilled, closing his eyes as though to focus inwards. Nothing seemed to happen. Then: “That way. I hear something ticking ... like clocks.”

It was on the tip of Renard’s tongue to ask whether Nick had been staying with Monroe too long. He certainly wasn’t hearing anything. There was nothing to hear. Nick proved right, though. Little later they found a door half hidden in a nook, the door new, solid but not locked. The room beyond was filled with loot – there was a table, a narrow cot and beyond clocks, paintings, boxes of silver cutlery, a pile of fur coats. Renard looked around, taking stock.

“Those have to be at least 100 grand.” Then, eyes cutting to Nick: “How did you do that?”

Nick shrugged, looked down a second too late to hide triumph.

“Good ears. It’s a long story.”

Wasn’t it always. Renard didn’t let himself think about just what Nick might have overheard in the past – weeks? years? – while ostensibly out of earshot. There’d be time for that later. 

“Well, the killer is bound to come back for this and-“

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Something slammed into him from behind and Renard staggered, snarled. He caught sight of his attacker out of the corner of his eyes – large, woged – even as he twisted out of the way to avoid the Gelumcaedus’ bite. Nick took the brunt of the creature’s next attack, brought up his arm and there was the sickening screech of teeth on metal. The vambrace.

“Sean!”

Renard brought out his gun, and, not wanting to risk shooting in so small a space, cold-clocked the Gelumcaedus with the grip. The thing reeled, dropped to its knees and, turning the gun in his hand, Renard pressed the barrel against the back of its head.

“Don’t. Move.”

He was breathing heavily, fighting the urge to pull the trigger. Looking over the Gelumcaedus’ head, Renard met Nick’s eyes, Grimm eyes, seeing his own excitement mirrored there. It’d be easy. Kill the enemy, an explosion of blood and brains, a knife in the neck.

“Sean...”

Said again, in a very different voice. Renard briefly closed his eyes. No. Not an enemy. A criminal. He turned to Nick, willing himself away from the edge. What was he doing? He was supposed to be keeping an eye on Nick, not losing control himself. Taking a deep breath, Renard summoned every ounce of authority he possessed.

“Handcuffs. We’re bringing him in.”

Nick moved slowly, reluctantly, but he obeyed even as the man looked at him and hissed 'Decapitare'. Less than an hour later the Gelumcaedus - Gregorek– was in a holding cell, due process taking over. It had been a long day. Renard only briefly checked with the officers on duty before taking his leave. What he needed, he decided, was a quiet night. A glass of wine, something mindless on TV and no impeding crisis. He barely made it to his car before everything went black.

When Renard came to, he was back in the sewers. The smell was telling and, when he opened his eyes a little to peek through lowered lashes, he could see a rough stone floor and two pairs of feet. He didn't move, couldn't move much, in fact, considering that his arms were tied above his head. Mind working furiously, Renard weighed his options. His bonds were tape, no cuffs. He might be able to break free, if he put his whole strength into it. Clearly they didn't know what he was. Under ordinary circumstances he might take the chance, even against two men close to his own size, even unarmed. However, since they had brought him down here, they must have been working with Gregorek. At the very least they'd be Wesen – what kind he wouldn't know until they woged. He really didn't want to lose a limb. 

Not worth the risk, not just yet. Renard kept slumping into his bonds, waiting, listening. They were keeping him alive for a reason. He'd get his chance. Just what reason was swiftly becoming clear. One of the men made a call to Nick, demanded Gregorek – his brother. It was humiliating, really. Renard was briefly pulled up, the phone held to his mouth. He barely got out two words, however, before it was jerked away again. A fist slammed into the side of his head with casual strength, knocking him back against the wall. If he were human, he'd be dealing with a concussion at the very least. Suppressing a snarl, Renard pretended to be dizzier than he was as yet another piece of tape was slapped over his mouth. He couldn't wait for Nick to get here. In a way, it was hard to believe. Nick was coming for him.

One of the men left, obviously to hide in a side tunnel. The other, Andre, remained behind, producing a knife. Neither of them seemed worried – not about holding a police officer hostage, not about showing their faces. They were planning to kill them as soon as they had Gregorek. They had no idea what they were dealing with.

Nick arrived little later. He seemed calm enough, went along with the exchange of hostages, but when Renard caught his eye, he saw barely leashed fury. They'd have to act quickly now. As soon as he was out of Andre's reach, Renard tore his arms free, ripped the tape from his mouth.

“There's another one in the tunnels!”

The fight didn't last more than a minute or two. Renard whirled to face Andre, finally met the Gelumcaedus' woge with his own Zauberbiest. The shock on his face was immensely satisfying. Behind him, beside him, Nick was taking on the other two, trading blows with violent grace. The third brother fell as the vambrace's blade slid into his gut, his throat. Andre went next, thrown directly into Nick's path by Renard. It was almost effortless, all bright, merciless joy to be able to move like this, to simply take these three creatures, who had obviously thought themselves invincible – probably had been up to this point – and annihilate them. Of course Nick would be feeling the same way. Of course he'd love it.

In the end, Gregorek was once more on his knees, face human again, contorted with shock and grief as his brothers lay dead. Nick didn't lower his arms, didn't take his eyes off the man even as he addressed Renard: “You hurt?”

“No.”

Shoulders relaxing a bit, Nick nodded. He leaned down, absent-mindedly wiping his blade on one of the dead men's shirts.

“We'll bring him in, then. Again. The bodies?”

“They killed each other over the loot before we got here. Can't have that vambrace turn into evidence.”

Renard also shuddered to think just what an accurate account of tonight's events would do to his reputation. The whole business with Kimura had been bad enough.

It was past midnight by the time Renard allowed himself to briefly collapse into his chair back at the precinct. A quiet night. Wine. TV. Surely he deserved that much? 

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

Nick. Already in the room, in the process of closing the door. Resisting the urge to massage the bridge of his nose, Renard said a little plaintively: “You do realize that any reports can wait until tomorrow?”

Later that day. Whatever. Nick looked at him for a moment, face set, determined.

“Yeah. I just thought I'd let you know that I'm not going home tonight. You can either take me to your place, or I'll find somewhere else.”

Renard blinked, once, twice. Everything seemed normal: The familiar furniture, his desk with the phone, the files he was planning to check tomorrow. Had Nick really just implied that if he didn't get his way, he'd … what? Go out? Pick up somebody? Anybody? The whole concept was blatantly manipulative and Nick didn't think that way. He was learning quickly, though. Shock and anger tangling in his stomach, Renard forced himself to meet Nick's eyes, the challenge in them.

“Do we really have to do this now?”

“You can pin it on me. I already texted Monroe I'll be sleeping in the trailer.”

His own words thrown back at him. In spite of himself, a wry smile tugged at Renard's lips. It faded quickly, however. Nick meant it, there was little doubt of that. Neither of them believed in empty threats. In a lot of ways, it was ridiculous: Nick had been in a relationship for as long as Renard had known him, had every right to be sleeping with whoever he pleased if that was over. If it was over.

“Juliette?”

The one thing that might still make a difference. None of this was fair to her, least of all Renard using her like a shield, the same day he had kissed the man she loved. She did still love Nick, that much he was sure of. The latter pressed his lips together, but this time he didn't fall back. 

“Juliette is talking about quitting Portland. She wants for the two of us to move away, leave behind – everything.”

It was too much to process at too late an hour. Knowing he'd never be able to work out all the possible angles, all the implications, Renard went straight to the most important question.

“What did you say?”

“That I'd think about it. Everything, Sean. Police work, my friends, the trailer. A fresh start.”

Not possible, not with a key in play. They'd never be left alone. They'd be hunted down and then there would be no cache of weapons, no friends to stand by their side. As though Nick had read his thoughts, those blue eyes narrowed.

“I could give the key to you. Would you like that?”

“I believe you know that the key isn't my first preference,” Renard said, sharper than he had intended. Surely he had proven that much, at least? If not anything else? Nick's shoulders slumped and, after a moment, he passed his hand over his face as though to wipe away his last words. He looked tired suddenly, as exhausted as Renard felt, and utterly lost.

“You're right. I do know that. I'm sorry.”

Had Nick ever apologized to him? It was that, as much as anything, that made up Renard's mind. Like balancing at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump, about to fall. He pushed himself to his feet, reached for his jacket.

“All right. Let's go.”

They once more took separate cars and, focusing determinedly on the non-existent traffic, Renard didn't let himself think about what he was doing. He wouldn't consider ways of using this new development to his advantage, alternative strategies, repercussions. He wanted- That was the simple truth of the matter. Renard wanted. He had been so strong for so long, denying himself. He wasn't strong tonight.

Nick parked a few streets away, seemed considerably less sure of himself as they took the elevator, rode upstairs. He didn't say anything, though, too much Grimm to admit to doubt at this point. Renard unlocked the door, went straight for the bar in the living room. If there had ever been a situation that called for alcohol, this was it. He caught Nick glancing around as he accepted his drink, taking in the space, the casual display of wealth, the glittering lights of the city beyond the big windows. The last time he had been here, the place had been a crime scene – hardly at its best. 

The memory only served to drive home just how inappropriate the current situation was. A subordinate, for heaven's sake. How long had it been since he had thought of Nick that way? Too late for that now. Renard put down his own glass with a decisive clink. He moved slowly, deliberately giving Nick time to gauge his approach. Just a little. Just a taste. Even Eric had accorded him that much. They both smelled faintly of the stale air in the sewers, but that was almost blotted out by the scent of violence, blood and death. Feeling his Zauberbiest shiver under his skin, Renard leaned in, almost touching. The kiss tasted of liquor, malty, burning. Nick made a little noise as his lips parted, kissed back just as hungrily. A slide of tongue, the blunt pressure of teeth against his lower lip, and suddenly this was something he could have. Renard felt rather than saw Nick shrug out of his jacket, heard it drop to the ground. 

“Sean-”

Warm lips brushed his jaw, his neck, only to pull away with an impatient sound. Nick was still wearing the vambrace, previously hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, was tugging at it with his free hand, trying to pull it off. Renard reached out.

“Let me.”

He caught Nick's wrist, turned it up. A little blood had seeped into the leather, making it stiff, but the knot gave easily enough. Renard took the time to unlace the vambrace completely, watching Nick shiver every time the leather thong was dragged over his skin. It was exhilarating – as much disarming a Grimm as undressing the man. Thumb rubbing slow circles over Nick's pulse point, Renard looked up.

“Your blood?”

“No.”

“Good.”

A Grimm – dangerous in so many ways. By now the feeling of that body against his was familiar, the taste of Nick's skin, pulse thudding against Renard's lips.

“Sean...,” his name again. Nick's voice was tight with something other than pain, other even than lust. “I wasn't lying. When I told you I'd been thinking about you and Juliette back before everything. I wasn't lying. I did think about you.”

Renard's breath hissed out of him and, reflexively, he took a step back, putting distance between them. Nick had been lying. He had to have been. He wasn't exactly stable even now and Renard couldn't begin to tell what was going on in that head, where any of this was coming from. Nothing that would bother him ordinarily. Nick's state of mind had been barely a passing thought when Renard had had ordered the death of Marie Kessler, hadn't meant anything when he had plotted to use the Grimm as a weapon against his family. Eric wouldn't have hesitated. Eric would have taken what he wanted. But Eric was dead, had deserved to die for that very reason. Aware that he wasn't thinking clearly, Renard looked at the vambrace he was still holding, at the blood on it. He clenched his fist.

“It's 2 am. We really ought to get some rest. Please.”

It felt strange to be saying that last word – not as an empty pleasantry attached to an order or to play on somebody's sympathies, but meaning it. The world didn't work that way. People didn't give you things just for the asking. Nick's eyes were searching his face. Then, voice softer, he asked:

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Don't go.”

They looked at each other silently, not knowing what else to say, what could be said. It took Renard a few minutes to find fresh towels, a pair of sweat pants, a fresh tooth brush. When Nick disappeared into the bathroom, he took the chance to pour himself another drink. Sitting down heavily, Renard listened to the sound of the shower. His mind was curiously blank, the dull ache in his arms and shoulders a steady hum in the background. Being tied up for any length of time did that.

“Sean?”

Renard started, almost dropped his glass. Right now, clad only in too big sweatpants and rubbing his hair with a towel, Nick didn't look particularly frightening. There was a definite note of amusement in those blue eyes, mixed with something that looked almost like concern.

“You look beat. Come to bed?”

After a quick shower to get rid of the stench of the sewers, Renard did just that. Nick seemed already half-asleep, sprawled comfortably on one side of the big bed. He smiled drowsily as Renard slid between the sheets. 

“If it looks like I'm dreaming, just wake me up.”

“I will.”

As solemn a promise as any Renard had ever made. They didn't quite touch, content to share warmth and scent as they drifted off.

Nick did dream. He tossed, twisted, mouth forming harsh, half-formed sounds somewhere between pain and rage. Small wonder he had asked to be woken. Renard watched for a moment, resisting the temptation to try and make sense of the fragmented words he got. When he would have reached out, however, his wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. After a few breathless seconds, Nick's snarl faded and his hand dropped away. Not knowing what else to do, Renard shifted a little closer, as close as he could without actually touching.

“Go back to sleep. You're safe.”

Amazingly, Nick did.

*

Neither of them had set an alarm and as a result, they slept in until bright sunlight was crawling over the hardwood floor. Renard stirred first, stretching slowly. He didn't want to wake up completely just yet. It felt utterly hedonistic to be lounging in bed in broad daylight, study the broad sweep of Nick's shoulders through lowered lashes, the long line of his back. He could smell his own shampoo and body wash on that gorgeous body – in itself enough to make warm pleasure spread through his chest.  
Eventually Nick shifted, languidly pushing himself up onto his elbows. His eyes briefly widened. Then, determinedly unconcerned:

“What time is it?”

“Around ten. We did have a long night.”

A few seconds ticked by, stretching into awkward silence. Renard leaned towards the nightstand, where he had left his cell, very much aware of Nick's eyes following the movement.

“No missed calls. We ought to be good for another hour. How about breakfast?”

They gleefully raided the fridge for any leftovers Renard's housekeeper had stored there and left the kitchen rather less clean than they had found it. Cold lasagna and half an apple pie made for a somewhat strange combination, but Nick seemed content enough sipping his coffee, still barefoot, delaying having to put his old clothes back on until the last possible moment. Reluctant to disturb this unexpected moment of peace, Renard didn't ask about the dreams. 

It didn't last, couldn't last. All too soon Nick disappeared into the bathroom to change. If anything, the smell lingered in his clothes seemed to have intensified over the past hours. Looking on the bright side, Renard thought that this might be enough to fool even Monroe's keen sense of smell.

Already on his way to the door, Nick hesitated: “What they called me – Decapitare. What does it mean?”

No point trying to sugar coat that one.

“Latin. He who beheads – an old word for Grimms.”

Nick nodded tightly, but didn't flinch, didn't avert his eyes. He squared his shoulders, studied Renard's face.

“Someday soon you won't say no.”

Someday soon Nick would think better of it. The words wouldn't quite form, though, and even later, when Renard went to wash and dress, he didn't throw away the second toothbrush.


	5. Chapter 5

The following days were quiet, uneventful. Nick seemed to have settled down somewhat – at least there were no more public outbursts – or private attempts at blackmail. A good thing, too, since Renard wasn't at all sure he'd be able to resist. He focused on his job, instead, spent long hours catching up on the paperwork that had piled up during his brief sojourn into fieldwork. Hank's call would have been a welcome interruption, if it hadn't been for the instant realization that people didn't call him unless there was some sort of trouble. Instantly alert, he picked up.

“Griffin. What is it?”

“I'm sorry to bother you, Captain, but there's been some sort of incident at Juliette's house. A neighbor heard screams, crashes, the like, and called it in. I thought you'd want to know.”

Renard's grip on his phone tightened. Nick might be volatile, things between him and Juliette were definitely far from well, but surely he wouldn't-

“Nick?”

“On his way there. He's still listed at the address, so the officer who took the call alerted him.”

Juliette. She could take care of herself, had proved that often enough. She was human, though, and chances were that whatever had sought out Nick's old house wasn't. If anything were to happen to her, there was no telling what Nick would do. Renard put his files aside, reached for his coat.

“I'm on my way.”

“Me, too.”

Hank sounded just as worried, as well he might be. The way to Nick's old house was long familiar, well-known landmarks passing in a blur. Juliette. Renard bit back a curse. He had been careless, assumed she was safe since Nick was currently staying with Monroe and she had no further association with the Wesen-world. Damn.  
Renard and Hank reached Nick's house almost at the same time. Nick's car was parked haphazardly in front, driver's door still open. A woman screamed, fear plain in her voice. Not Juliette. The two men nodded at each other, drew their guns. They took position on both sides of the front door, which mercifully proved unlocked. Renard moved in first. The living room showed signs of a struggle. A lamp lay in shards on the floor, the couch had been shoved out of place, one of the pillows torn and bleeding feathers. Hank was a good officer, Renard noted not for the first time as they moved towards the kitchen. He made sure to maintain the right distance, always mindful of the line of fire.

“Grimm!”

An angry growl followed by another crash and a jumble of noises: the scrambling of feet, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, grunts and whimpers and Juliette shouting Nick's name, telling him to stop.   
In the kitchen Nick had a large man pinned against the fridge, one arm across his throat, fist hammering into his side. Busy. A young woman Renard had never seen before had flattened herself against the counter, eyes wide, terrified. Not a threat. Juliette was in the middle of the room, clutching a frying pan of all things, turning from one to the other obviously unsure what to do. No one else in sight. Renard kept his gun on Nick's opponent, knew Hank would keep an eye on the woman in case there were any surprises.

“Police. Stand down, both of you!”

Nick's fist came down one last time, drawing a groan from the man in his grip. For long seconds the Grimm stood panting. When he glanced at Renard, however, he seemed steady enough.

“He's Klaustreich.”

Possibly not in as bad a shape as he appeared to be, then. Renard kept his gun trained at the perp's head even as he nodded at Hank, who moved forward, handcuffs clinking.

“You're under arrest, sir. Put your hands behind your back.”

“You're making a mistake, man! I just came here to see my wife. That madman barged in and attacked me. I-”

Tuning out the man's complaints, which went on even as Hank read him his rights, Renard turned to the others.

“Would somebody care to tell me what happened here?”

Juliette drew a deep breath, put the frying pan down with a clink.

“He is Alicia's husband, all right, but she left him months ago. He's been stalking her ever since – she actually came to visit me in Portland to get away from him. When he showed up here tonight I called Nick.”

“By the time I got here, he was trying to force Alicia to leave with him. Naturally I stepped in,” Nick put in, seamlessly continuing Juliette's story. The two of them could still do that. Hank was jerking the man around, pushing him towards the door. Renard resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I take it you didn't ask him into the house?”

“We definitely didn't.”

Trespassing, then. Not the gravest offense. Assaulting a police officer, however...

“Nick identified himself as a police?”

There was a telltale moment of hesitation, the sharp awareness of implications written all over Juliette's face. Nick was looking at her with a mix of longing and frustration, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. It hurt to see the two of them like this, knowing the couple they had been. Finally Juliette squared her shoulders.

“He knew Nick is police.”

Not quite the same thing, but nothing that couldn't be dealt with. The woman – Alicia – would have to be handled. She was trying to get away from her husband, so she was unlikely to side with him, but victims of long-term abuse were notoriously unreliable. Even now she was staring at Nick, seemingly frozen with horror. If her husband was Klaustreich, chances were she was Wesen as well. Something else to take into consideration. Either way-

“The two of you will have to come to the precinct to make a statement.”

A strangled sound escaped Alicia's throat. Juliette turned to her, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder by way of support. When Nick would have moved forward, she stopped him with an impatient gesture.

“Right now?”

“Not right now. Tomorrow, though,” Renard said, the flat authority in his voice making clear that this was not a suggestion. These were police matters. There were certain procedures to be followed. Juliette would have to talk to her friend, explain how things worked in Portland.

“Juliette...” Nick tried again, all but a whisper. She looked at him, wide blue eyes guarded, perfectly still as the seconds ticked by. When nothing followed, she squared her shoulders. 

“You ought to leave now. I appreciate your help, I really do, but Alicia and I will be fine now. We need some time to deal with what happened.”

And a Grimm's presence wouldn't help. The last remained unspoken, of course, but Renard could see the thought unfold on Nick's face. He stepped forward, said gentler than intended: “Burkhardt, why don't you accompany Hank back to the precinct? I'm not comfortable with him and the perp alone in a car, all things considered.”

Neither, in all truth, was he comfortable with the idea of Nick driving right now. The car could be picked up later. Tomorrow even, if it came to that. Depending on what Nick chose to do that evening. Something in Renard's chest grew tight and heavy at that thought and, resolutely he turned his mind back to business.

“Ladies, you are safe enough, for the moment. I'll have an officer look in on you later tonight and I expect both of you at the precinct tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

Nick chose to do nothing that night, which was probably all for the best. He also absented himself for most of the following day, pleading new leads regarding an ongoing investigation, which was part of the reason Renard found himself facing Juliette across his desk. They had worked out a timeline that ought to hold up in court and, scanning their carefully worded statement one last time, Renard hit print. He looked at Juliette.

“Your friend is clear on what happened yesterday?”

She didn't say anything for a moment, lips compressed as though she were struggling with herself. Finally Juliette nodded.

“She is. Not that it matters. You'd bully her into saying whatever suits your needs.”

Not an unfair accusation, but perhaps uncalled for at this precise moment. Mouth twisting into a wry smile, Renard met Juliette's gaze. He was the easy target.

“Right now, my needs happen to be the same as hers. I'm going to lock away the man who has been making her life a living hell. Which also happens to be my job. Surely there is nothing wrong with that?”

“Don't. Don't try to make this into something it isn't. You are saving Nick's badge. What if it had been some other cop? What would they be facing right now?”

Quite probably a cruel, messy death at the hands of a Klaustreich. That wasn't what Juliette was asking, though.

“Disciplinary action. A psychological exam, we both know Nick wouldn't pass. Suspension and a desk job at best, at worst they'd lose their badge and their pension. Is that what you want?”

If this were Nick, Renard mused, his rage would evaporate now. This was Juliette, though, and there was something colder at the core of her, less easily roused to anger, but prone to hold onto it longer, let it fester. Her fists clenched.

“I wanted Nick back. I want my life back!”

Her life. The cocoon of love and happiness that had been wrapped around her until even a year ago – a secure future with the man of her choice, marriage, a family, shared laughter. Friends who weren't part of an arcane world she would never really be part of. Renard shook his head at Juliette's unspoken question.

“There is no magic that will give you what you want. Your life is your own, as are your choices. And you have seen what love spells are like.”

A faint flush spread over Juliette's pale face at the reminder of shared obsession and bone-deep desire. Some of her anger seemed to leave her at last, shoulders slumping.

“He loves me. He does love me.”

“I know.”

Not an easy admission to make, but Juliette couldn't know that. Suddenly tired, Renard tried to think of some reassurance he could offer. Nothing came to mind. Echoing his own bleak thoughts, Juliette drew a shaky breath. 

“It's not enough, is it?” Then, after a brief pause. “I was going to be angry at you.”

“I understand. Aren't you?”

Juliette took up the pen, turned it in her fingers for a moment. When she looked up again, her face was unreadable.

“When Alicia came to me for help, I asked her why she waited so long – why she didn't leave him the first time he hit her. She said she had been deceiving herself, holding on to her idea of the relationship she ought to be having even when the reality of it kept getting worse and worse. She said she was afraid of being alone. I don't want to deceive myself. Not any more.”

She signed the statement with quick, neat strokes of her pen, then grabbed her purse and stood.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm angry. I've never been this angry in my life. But I'm dealing with it. I'm dealing with a lot of things.”

None of this, Renard reflected as he walked her to the door, boded particularly well for Nick. There might even be some advantages in this. Juliette used to be an asset, one more link that tied Nick to Portland. If that was no longer the case- No. He wouldn't go there. Not just yet, not while there was no real reason to push the issue. Better let matters run their course and see how things turned out. Alicia was already waiting and, putting such fruitless speculations aside, Renard focused on dealing with the crisis at hand.

*

For several long, blissful days nothing happened. It was a bit of a breather, not nearly enough for all that Nick seemed to have calmed down a bit. Or perhaps he was just getting better at feigning calm. All of that ended abruptly with Wu appearing in the door of Renard's office.

“Somebody here to see you, Captain. Wait, I had to write that one down: Viktor Chlodwig zu Schellendorf von Königsberg. Quite a mouthful, huh?”

For a moment, Renard sat frozen. He had been waiting to hear from his family, but a visit in person was … unexpected. Viktor. Sebastien had indicated that he might be taking Eric's place. Renard rose, crossing his office with a few quick steps.

“Keep him busy for a moment. Offer him coffee, but don't leave him alone in here. I'll be right back.”

Nick was nowhere in sight, but Hank was at his desk. Renard met his puzzled gaze, keeping his expression blank even as he spoke lowly, urgently: “Get Burkhardt out of here. Now.”

Hank's eyebrows rose, but he answered just as quietly.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Anything. Just don't come back until I tell you. I-”

“Cousin.”

Viktor's voice carried through the room and, instantly, shocked understanding spread on Hank's face. Already turning away, Renard nodded confirmation. 

“I'll handle this. Go.”

Thankfully, Hank did. Now they could only hope that just this once Nick would do as he was told and stay out of the line of fire. Renard went back to his office, seated himself behind his desk, gestured for Wu to leave.

“Please close the door.”

Viktor, obviously not used to being disregarded in such a manner, remained standing for few seconds before he stooped to pull up a chair and sat.

“Cousin,” he repeated, self-satisfaction giving way to annoyance. Good. Renard smiled thinly, leaned back.

“Viktor. To what do I owe the honor?”

A small, anticipatory smile returned to Viktor's face. He opened the briefcase he had been carrying and pulled out a thick manila envelope. 

“I am here to offer congratulations on behalf of the family. As of three months ago, you are the father of a beautiful baby girl. You will be happy to learn that your father acknowledged her as a member of the family and she is treated accordingly.”

It was possible. That one night, drenched with lust and desperation. He had fucked Adalind several times – no gentler word for that – too crazed to get them indoors, let alone use protection. It was also utterly surreal. The envelope contained a birth certificate, a paternity test and several photos. A hospital bed, Adalind looking exhausted, stunned rather than happy, holding a tiny baby. His girl? Diana. The child in a crib, a bit bigger already, set against a room that looked vaguely familiar. Adalind again, well-dressed, carefully made up, but standing stiffly, clutching her daughter close. She had given birth now, was no longer a beloved mistress. Her position would be precarious at best. Viktor leaned forward, eyes avid.

“The king specifically asked me to tell you how happy he is to have his first grandchild under his roof. He is expecting you to visit shortly to meet your daughter. He very much regrets that matters with his remaining son should be so … unsettled. Family shouldn't fight. That's the official message.”

Suggesting, of course, that there was an unofficial one. What Renard had heard so far was bad enough. If this was real, if she was his daughter, he could imagine what her childhood would be like. Part Hexenbiest, part royal, surrounded by people looking to use her without even a strong mother to protect her interests. She'd be torn apart. Even if she wasn't his own, they still shared blood. His niece. And by ordering Eric's death he had robbed her of any security she might have had. Nothing he could do about that now. Renard kept his face blank, his voice calm, pleasant.

“I am always grateful to receive my father's good wishes.”

His father wouldn't have sent a prince – crown prince now – all the way to Portland like a messenger boy just in order to convey congratulations. Renard waited. Realizing that he wasn't going to get anything else, Viktor sighed theatrically.

“Let's not play games, Sean. We both know you had a hand in Eric's death. The king doesn't wish to see and he needn't, but make no mistake: your little rebellion ends now. You will cease your foolish dabbling with the resistance and give us all the information you have. Names, locations, plans. And trust me, we know enough already to tell if you are holding back. You will also bring that key to Vienna – in person. If you do, you will be permitted to see the child. You may even keep your little fiefdom here – and that Grimm you seem to care so much about.”

The usual list of demands. Well, creativity had never been his family's strong suit. Never taking his eyes off his cousin, Renard inclined his head. He felt cold. 

“And if I refuse?”

“If you fail to fulfill any of our demands, we will order your death. Yours, your mother's and Adalind's.” 

There was no sting to those words, a simple statement, quiet, matter of fact and all the more threatening for it. Renard didn't move, knew his face remained impassive. The ruthless clarity of self-preservation was kicking in. This was what he had been dreading and already his mind was racing, calculating risks, wondering what he'd have to sacrifice. The door opened, making both men turn. Nick. Of course. Hank's chances of success had been slim to none. 

“Captain.”

Nick entered quickly, closed the door behind himself without waiting for permission. He didn't move further into the room, fists clenched at his side as he faced Viktor. There was barely restrained violence in the way he held himself still and this couldn't be happening, not now, not at the precinct with no way to cover up … anything. As unobtrusively as possible, Renard swept the documents and pictures back into the envelope. Nick would need to know – eventually. Viktor was smiling broadly.

“Nick! I may still call you Nick, may I not? After all, we were such fast friends back in Vienna.”

Nick bared his teeth, more snarl than smile.

“What are you doing here?”

“Paying a friendly visit, what else? Sean and I are in the process of resolving our differences – I'd like to say to our mutual satisfaction, but that'd be stretching the truth. At any rate, I should be taking my leave for the time being. The two of you must be busy. This is an amazingly violent city, isn't it?”

Judging by the look on Nick's face, he was contemplating some violent actions himself. He made no move to get out of the way as Viktor rose and turned to the door. The latter was still smiling smugly, obviously unaware of the danger he was in, unable to imagine that anyone would dare to physically attack a prince. Eric had been the same. Arrogant. Renard made himself focus on Nick, willing him to listen.

“Burkhardt.” Then, gentler: “Please.”

Viktor's eyebrows shot up at that, probably at the tone rather than the words, but at the moment, Renard didn't care. Nick, too, started. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he backed off. He watched Viktor leave, furiously silent. 

Once they were alone, Renard breathed out slowly. His head was pounding, a mix of relief and anger making it hard to think. He looked at Nick, mouth twisting.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough. What are you going to do?”

Renard knew what Nick wanted to hear. That they wouldn't give in to his family's threats, that Viktor could be fought, killed. It wasn't that easy. Not if they wanted to live. He shook his head.

“I don't know. I need to think.”

Disappointment palpable, Nick looked over his shoulder as though he would prefer to go after Viktor right now. When he turned back, however, some of the rage seemed to have faded.

“Are you safe?”

Not a question Renard would have answered a few months ago – not a question that would have been asked. He shifted his shoulders the barest degree, wondering how much of an answer Nick really wanted. 

“I do not believe my father would condone my murder. However, Viktor is crown-prince now. The position comes with certain … liberties.

Nodding slowly, Nick's eyes narrowed. He didn't ask about himself, probably knew he'd be safe enough, as long as he had the key in his possession. Instead: “He'll have Verrat working for him, then. Eric never trusted him.” 

Even considering everything that had happened, it was strange to be having this discussion with Nick. He was right, of course. Viktor wasn't to be trusted. So far, however, his actions had at least been predictable. The direct approach, threat and reward. What Renard needed right now was information. He'd have to risk calling Sebastien, what few contacts he had within the Laufer. His mother, too, needed to be warned, if he could reach her. What if his communication channels were compromised, though? That might be part of Viktor's plan – scare him into reaching out in order to pounce on his contacts.

Nick was suspiciously quiet, head tilted as though he was trying to guess at Renard's thoughts. His eyes were hard, angry.

“It's never going to stop, is it?”

No. It wouldn't. If he were a better man, Renard thought, he’d send Nick away now, tell him that Viktor could be dealt with without his help, tell whatever lies were necessary to keep him out of this. Instead, he asked:

“How well do you know Viktor?”

“Not very. He wasn't part of your brother's inner circle. He only joined us sometimes when we went out to have fun. You?”

Nothing Renard cared to think about. He gritted his teeth.

“Mostly hearsay. When we were children, the household of my uncle was very much separate. And then, of course, I was on the run.”

Viktor's enmity was certainly less personal than Eric's – the general contempt for a bastard – but in a lot of ways more dangerous for it. His brother had meant to torment. Viktor wouldn't hesitate to kill. The sudden knock at the door came as something of a relief. Renard gestured at Wu to wait a second, looked at Nick.

“We'll talk later.”

“Oh, we will. Your place tonight?”

Renard hesitated for a moment. He would have liked more time to think, to work out some kind of plan. Nick, however, was perfectly capable of jumping to his own conclusions and – if worst came to worst – confront Viktor on his own.

“Very well. Just be careful – they're probably watching the building.”

*

When Nick turned up at Renard's doorstep later that evening he was carrying an overnight bag, which he dumped in the hallway with an unapologetic shrug.

“I'm staying over. Your place isn't safe.”

Well, Nick would know, wouldn't he? If the situation hadn't been quite so dire, Renard might have found the whole thing funny. Instead, he watched silently as the Grimm – very much Grimm just now – paced. Abruptly Nick stopped, turned to face him.

“I want Viktor dead.”

It would be undeniably satisfying to put a gun to Viktor's head, pull the trigger and watch that gloating smirk explode into blood and brains. Not something they could afford, not with the entire power of the family ranged against them. Nick had to know that. Renard didn't say anything and, after a moment, Nick cursed.

“So we just give up? Let the fucker get away with it?” he asked, voice was harsh with accusation.

“We survive.”

That was what mattered, wasn't it? Revenge could be taken later, but if they died over this, there would be no second chance, no justice for either of them. There would be nothing at all. They looked at each other for a few seconds, groping for some sort of understanding.   
Renard deliberately forced himself to relax his stance, was grateful to see Nick followed suit. The last thing they needed right now was a fight. With Viktor in town, there was no room for mistakes. Nick had the grace to look slightly discomfited.

“I didn't mean it like that. You hate them as much as I do. I just- aren't you going to offer me a drink?”

Renard wordlessly went to the kitchen to fetch two bottles of beer. He watched Nick kick off his shoes and settle down on the couch. The Grimm had half turned to the window, and studying the clear lines of his profile, Renard felt his breath catch. Even now, pale with anger and tension, Nick was beautiful. 

“So if I can't kill Viktor, what are we going to do?”

“I don't know.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Renard realized they sounded like an admission of failure. This was his family, his problem. Nick didn't seem to mind, though. He merely nodded and took another swig from his bottle. 

“We'll figure something out. I'll call the others, tell them what happened. With all of us working together, there's got to be something we can do.”

Renard couldn't quite share Nick's optimism. Furthermore, every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea of letting anyone know just how vulnerable a position he was in. Hank would have to be told something, of course. He had been there when Viktor had made his appearance at the precinct. Nick was already involved, but-

“There's no need to drag Monroe and Rosalee into this? I know that they are your friends and I'm sure they wouldn't hesitate to help you in any way they can, but so far the family has no reason to go after them. Asking them to do anything more would only expose them to danger.”

“You don't understand – they're already in danger. I told your family I had hidden the key at the spice shop.”

The spice shop. Of course. In a way it made perfect sense. Nick had known that his own house and even the trailer wasn't safe. The precinct hadn't worked out so well either. All of which begged the question-

“It's not there anymore, is it?”

“I'm not stupid. I moved it after … after you brought me back. It's in a safe place.”

Renard resisted the urge to ask just where Nick considered safe. He didn't need to know. Not yet anyway. Both men fell silent for a minute. Then, abruptly, Nick pushed himself to his feet and moved to stand right in front of Renard. 

“Why Adalind?”

Distracted by the sudden proximity, it took a moment for Renard to react. Eyes narrowing he looked up at Nick.

“What do you mean?”

“Why would Viktor threaten you with Adalind's death? You cast her off when I took her powers. She doesn't mean anything to you. Or does she?”

Belatedly, Renard realized that he should have been expecting this question, made up a story, some sort of excuse. Too late for that now. The truth would have to do. 

“The child. Adalind's girl. They claim I'm the father.”

Nick stilled completely, fists clenched. Instead of lashing out, however, he merely nodded and took a deep breath. 

“You're saying you could be.”

“It's possible.”

Renard didn't feel like offering more of an explanation, absurdly reluctant to admit what had really happened, how out of it he had been. Of course Nick would be counting two and two together, tallying months, fitting snippets of information into a new framework. He'd know that Adalind might be lying, that Viktor would have his own reasons for denying Eric's paternity. 

After a moment, Nick reached out, and placed a hand on Renard's shoulder. The gentle touch – comfort offered? - was unexpected and even sweeter for it.

“Your family sucks.”

The kiss that followed was gentle as well, a soft brush of lips, shared breath and the slide of Nick's tongue against his. It did feel like comfort. When they finally broke apart, both of them were reluctant to relinquish contact. Nick took a deep breath, mouth set into a firm line.

“We will tell the others. They're your friends, too. Rosalee is. And we will make Viktor regret he ever set foot in Portland.”

Renard didn't find it in himself to protest. Neither did he protest when he was pulled to his feet and steered towards the bedroom. Grimm-strength, he thought with a flash of humor at the unfamiliar sensation of being handled. He ended up on the bed, flat on his back and looking up at Nick. Those blue eyes were still bright with furious determination and Renard could feel the tension radiating from the body above him. 

“You said it yourself: It won't stop. They won't stop. Not unless we stop them. Together.”

Renard found himself reaching out, cupping Nick's nape and pulling the other man back against him. The kiss that followed felt like sealing a pact. When Nick finally pulled away, he looked like something out of a wet dream, all swollen lips and mussed hair. Together. It could be done, Renard had always believed that. If Nick was given time to heal, if they could find a way to truly trust each other- Not yet, though. First they had to survive Viktor's games. Together.

The memory of Juliette crossed Renard's mind, but he deliberately put away any sense of pity for her, for her broken dreams. He'd keep her out of the line of fire. It was the best he could do. Viktor's people would be outside of the house, watching, noting when Nick left – or didn't leave. Let them. Perhaps it would give Viktor pause.

Nick was kissing him again, fingers fumbling blindly with the buttons of Renard's shirt. Finally he lost patience and simply jerked at the fabric until it fell open. With a last playful bite, Nick sat up. His eyes widened.

“Damn...”

A low, drawn-out exhalation, followed by the brush of fingers over the hard ridges of Renard's chest and stomach. Nick's appreciation was undeniably gratifying, but even that was forgotten when that questing hand slid even lower until it reached the waistband of his slacks. Nick stilled.

“I want to touch you.”

There it was. Renard swallowed, found that he didn't know how to respond. He could push Nick back when he pressed lust like an attack. He could say no when Nick teased, offered his body with an air of confused desperation. What he didn't know was how to refuse Nick when he was asking, all calm and serious and so very sincere. Together. Undeniably so.

“Yes.”

Even as Renard said the word, a grin spread over Nick's face. A mere second later his hands were busy with belt and zipper and underwear. Renard swallowed a groan as callused fingers curled around his cock. Nick was watching him closely as he shifted his grip, thumb brushing the head, fingers tracing veins and ridges, a slow exploration like a subtle form of torture. There was no hesitation, no hint of shyness whatsoever. Renard did groan when Nick's hand tightened around him, sliding up, slowly, and down with a sharp flick of his wrist. He was dangerously on edge already and if he wasn't careful the whole thing would be over far too soon. It was embarrassing, really. Renard caught Nick's wrist, felt a brief moment of resistance, reminder of a Grimm's strength.

“Your turn.”

Nick pulled his T-shirt over his head with one fluid motion and tossed it aside. Renard was proud of his body, worked at it with all the vanity of a Zauberbiest, but Nick was … all Grimm. A tad less defined, but undeniably powerful, battle-hardened. Both men had been injured in the past, although Nick's scars were more recent, a reminder of what he had become, what he was capable of. Renard's Woge was shivering under his skin and he could feel Nick's body vibrate with a similar tension. They moved almost at the same time, grappling with what remained of their clothing, kicking off pants and underwear. Only a few moments to look, take in size and girth, flushed skin glistening with a smear of precum. Then their bodies came together, hips shifting until they found the right fit, the right rhythm. The first slide of flesh against flesh was breathtaking and it was all Renard could do to hang on. Nick was soaking into his skin, drawn into his lungs with every breath, echoing through his mind like those gasped moans. It was all pleasure, twisting around his spine and rushing through his blood to pool in the pit of his stomach. Nothing that could last. Nick's eyes were closed, mouth open, panting, and, abruptly, his whole body tensed. It was the feel of his orgasm that drove Renard over the edge, the sudden spurt of slick heat followed by strong fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to hurt. He came hard, barely aware enough to keep his woge at bay.

Afterwards both men collapsed, breath slowly calming as the lay side by side. Nick was the first to stir, propping himself up on his elbow. A small smile tugged at his lips as he looked down Renard's body. Easy to imagine what he looked like: flushed and sweaty groin and thighs sticky with their mingled come. Nick dragged his fingers through the mess, brought his hand up to study the liquid he had gathered.

“This isn't going to poison me or anything, is it?”

Renard would have laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. He mutely shook his head, eyes widening as he watched Nick lick their seed off his hand. Damn. Desire was still present, banked, though, not quite ready to flare up again this soon. Clearly relishing the effect he was having, Nick grinned.

“Stay put. I'll get something to clean up with.”

Nick knew his way around the apartment by now, so it didn't take long for him to return with a wash-cloth. Cleaning up turned into another round of explorations, bodies languid and relaxed, hands gentle. Renard hummed appreciation at the delicate shape of an ear, the strong line of jaw and shoulder, the soft skin at the bend of the elbow. A little later, when Nick was drowsy and half-asleep in his arms, Renard was wide awake, eyes open as he faced the darkness. He was going to have this. His Grimm, his city. His daughter. This was what he had been waiting for all his life and if Viktor thought he was going down without a fight, he could damned well think again. No matter what it might take – let Kronenberg burn, let Verrat and Council and Laufer go to hell. He would betray all of them if he had to, but nobody would take this from him. Nick made a sleepy noise, and, pressing a soft kiss to his Grimm's temple, Renard finally closed his eyes. All his.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who keeps reading and commenting! After all the build-up things are getting smuttier from here on and I have finally decided how many chapters there will be in total. Progress, right? Here we go...

By all rights, the morning after should have been awkward. In a way it was. Nick had woken both of them twice that night, tossing and shouting in the throes of a nightmare. Getting up, they almost collided on their way to the bathroom and later on Renard was quite certain they switched coffee mugs more than once. Nick, he noted with wry amusements, was not a morning person. Before the caffeine kicked in, he didn't seem capable of more than monosyllabic grunts and he displayed a disturbing tendency to scatter his things over every available surface. How Juliette had put up with that, Renard  
couldn't even begin to guess, but all the same he was smiling as he watched his Grimm move around the place as though it was the most natural thing in the world. On their way out, Nick briefly crowded him against the door, rising on tiptoes to steal a kiss. There were worse ways to start a day.

Unfortunately the following hours proved markedly different. Renard sat through several meetings – including a particularly nasty one involving next years' budget cuts. His only consolation was that whatever Verrat agent had been sent to follow him was bound to be as bored as he was. By the time he met up with Nick in the underground carport it was getting dark. They were alone. Hank had gone to give a statement in court, so they would meet up with him later and of course Monroe and Rosalee were taking their own car.  
Nick smiled as he climbed into the passenger seat, but Renard could sense the tension in his body. They were heading for the old farmhouse they had used to keep Nick prisoner – not a happy choice of venue, but their best option considering the circumstances. After all, he had bought it because of its secluded location and the lonely, winding road that led to it would have made anyone following them immediately obvious.

Renard glanced at Nick, trying to gauge his mood. The Grimm seemed deep in thought, eyes shadowed, fingers toying with the hem of his jacket. Not a posture that radiated relaxation. Renard himself still wasn't remotely comfortable with the idea of advertising weakness even to people he was starting to consider allies. The whole situation felt like a trap closing around him and if there was one thing he had learned when dealing with his family, it was to trust his instincts. Whatever it took, he reminded himself. Abruptly Nick's voice cut through his thoughts:

“Could you pull over for a second?”

They were already on the outskirts of the city, so it wasn't difficult to find a place to park. Swallowing a sense of foreboding, Renard killed the engine. Nick didn't sound angry, but there was a familiar, determined glint in those blue eyes. Shifting in his seat, he turned to face Renard.

“Woge.”

Which was- “What?”

Renard knew that he didn't quite manage to keep the shock off his face, because Nick made an impatient gesture.

“Woge for me, Sean. Please. I promise I won't freak.”

The last was said quietly, hurriedly. Nick didn't look away, though, and where was this coming from? Because of what had happened last night? Apprehension heavy in his stomach, Renard tried to remember how often Nick had seen him woged. Two, maybe three times? Never like this, up close and without any distractions. Renard wasn't ashamed of who he was – his mother had taught him better than that – but he wasn't at all sure he wanted to see himself in the bottomless black of a Grimm's eyes. He didn't want to see Nick's disgust. As though sensing the directions his thoughts were taking, something in Nick's expression softened. He reached out, briefly clasping Renard's shoulder.

“It's all right. I know who you are.”

Who, not what. Very well. Briefly closing his eyes, Renard focused inward. His woge rose readily, brought close to the surface by surprise and anxiety, gathering force until it became irresistible. There was a wash of power and Nick's eyes turned pitch-black. Even though he had known what to expect, the reality of the experience was disconcerting to say the least. His Zauberbiest wanted to snarl, instincts howling for fight or flight, but Renard kept a tight rein on his Wesen-side. He could see himself. It looked like he was floating in darkness, about to drown in it. Nick seemed – not closer, exactly. More present. His scent, his warmth, the steady thud of his pulse. 

Half-expecting a violent reaction, Renard kept himself very still – instead, surprisingly gentle fingers brushed his cheek, tracing the patches of withered skin.

“You're warm.”

Nick's voice sounded breathy, tight with a strange mix of curiosity and trepidation. Head tilting, Renard realized that he was leaning into the caress. Zauberbiest skin might look dead, but it was very much alive, flushed and sensitive. Had Nick ever really touched a woged Wesen outside of a fight? The furry kind, perhaps, but not like this, not knowing-

The Grimm's hand remained in place even as Renard shook off his Woge. There was a moment of silence, both men struggling with conflicting emotions. Renard very much wanted to turn his head and press a kiss into Nick's palm. Not sure such an advance would be welcome, he took a deep breath instead, steadying himself.

“Did that help?“

„I don't know. It wasn't … what I expected.“

Then Nick's mouth met his, lips cool and soft and sweetly insistent. It had been a long time, Renard thought disjointedly even as he opened his mouth. It had been a long time since he had kissed like this, without calculation or immediate purpose, seeking closeness and comfort rather than dominance. Finally Nick's hand dropped away and, with a sigh, Renard pulled back. 

“We should stop or they'll be able to smell it on us.”

Nick's eyes widened briefly, but he didn't say anything as he dropped into his seat, head falling back to expose the long line of his throat. Renard was already about to start the engine when the next question hit him like a fist in the gut. 

“Are you going to tell me what you gave that Hexenbiest friend of yours in exchange for her help? You know, when you brought me back.”

So Nick had heard, had been sitting on that particular bomb for the past week or so. Not something he needed right now, Renard thought wearily. Or ever. He glanced at Nick, weighing his options.

“I wasn't planning to.”

A short nod, as though this had been expected.

“Your friend would tell me, if I asked her.”

“She would.”

Renard didn't say anything else. What was there to say? Please don't push this? I'm already vulnerable enough to you. Don't make me give up another piece of myself? Nick nodded again, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Let's go, then. The others will be waiting.”

Even though Nick's sudden compliance was suspicious in itself, Renard knew better than to question his luck. The rest of the drive passed in near-silence. Nick's behavior made even less sense upon reflection. Why push the issue now? And why, having raised the question, simply agree to drop it? Nick didn't seem angry – if anything he appeared to have relaxed a little. There was something he was missing, Renard decided, some point to this whole exchange he couldn't see. No doubt whatever it was would return to haunt him later on.

 

They weren't the first to arrive. Several cars were parked in front of the main building, large, dark shapes in the twilight, like sleeping animals. Stepping into the warm light of the kitchen, Renard took stock. Hank and Rosalee were sitting at the table, cradling steaming mugs of what would be tea from the spice shop. Monroe was still on his feet, probably unable to sit still considering the way he was fidgeting with nervous tension. He would have to be talked down. Renard felt a certain, grudging respect for the Blutbad, but at moments like this he could have very well done without his presence.

Nick was holding up well. After a tiny moment of hesitation as he crossed the threshold, he stepped forward to greet his friends as though nothing was wrong. He did, however chose a chair facing away from the door on the other side of the room, the one that led to the basement.

“So can we kill that Viktor-guy? Because I'd be willing to help. Really, really willing.”

A small growl had slipped into Monroe's voice and with the last words his eyes flashed red. He did appear genuinely outraged, although probably more at the continued activities of House Kronenberg in Portland than at any concrete threats to Renard's person. Not much of a surprise there.  
Renard steepled his hands and, one by one, fixed the people around him with a stern glare, content to note the way Hank and Nick straightened at this familiar display of authority. 

“Let me get one thing straight: None of you will be going anywhere near my cousin. After what happened to Eric, he's bound to have a full contingent of Verrat with him – and that's just the start of what they'll bring against us, if he comes to harm here in Portland.”

It looked like Monroe might have protested, but thankfully Rosalee cut in: “Sean is right. We'll get ourselves killed, if any one of us goes after Viktor on their own. We need to think things through.”

“What does he want anyway? Other than Nick's key.”

Hank's voice, calmly asking the question that mattered. No theatrics there. Nodding approval, Renard briefly glanced at Nick, wondering just how much he would have to give away. Not everything. Not the little girl. Not Diana.

“He wants to show that he succeeds where Eric failed. He knows I've been working with the Laufer. I am to go to Vienna in person to answer to the family – and to tell them everything I know.”

“Sean isn't going! You can't go.”

Worry and anger were plain in Nick's voice – Renard knew he shouldn't be pleased, but couldn't quite deny that he was very much so. Hank, too, seemed genuinely taken aback and Monroe growled again, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to fill the room. Rosalee had paled, expressive mouth drawn into a thin line. She had friends within the Laufer. Renard met her eyes calmly, blandly, refusing to acknowledge her unspoken question. Affection only went so far and he would have to give Viktor something. 

The sound of yet another car pulling up interrupted the exchange. Juliette. So Nick had talked to her after all, taken the first step towards some sort of reconciliation. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. When the door opened, however, it wasn't Juliette who paused for a moment, framed by darkness. Torn between relief and incredulity, Renard stared.

“Henrietta?”

The Hexenbiest inclined her head, dark eyes sliding from one to the other.

“Sean. It is good to see you. I heard that family of yours is causing trouble?”

So this was the reason for Nick's strange behavior earlier in the car. Facing a Hexenbiest after everything that had happened – even one with arguably good intentions – couldn't be easy. What were Henrietta's intentions anyway? She had always taken pains to avoid any entanglements with the Royal Houses. 

Nick had the grace to look faintly guilty.

“Apparently Rosalee told her what happened and she offered to help. I wasn't sure she'd really show up.”

“And this would be the Grimm.”

A slow smile spread over Henrietta's face and Renard had to fight the urge to step between her and Nick. He briefly caught her eyes, mouthing her name by way of warning. The rest of the group was watching in silence as Nick rose, facing the the older woman like a challenge.

“So I am.”

She laughed, then, indulgent rather than mocking, but Nick bristled all the same, very much Grimm now. To her credit, Henrietta didn't woge. She merely lifted her hand, watched Nick flinch and then, defiantly, take half a step forward.

“Spirited. I'm sure Sean appreciates that. Is there anything you would like to say to me, Grimm? Some question you would like to ask?”

Renard suppressed a groan. He wasn't at all prepared for what happened next. Nothing could have prepared him for the way Nick briefly looked at him, for the little half-smile he received. Then the Grimm turned back to the Hexenbiest.

“No. I don't have any questions I want you to answer. Anyway, if you're here to help, you'd better sit down. We've got a lot to talk about.”

And talk they did. Listening to the others argue, Renard found himself thinking that they were trying to achieve the impossible. Viktor wouldn't leave them alone until he had gotten what he wanted, which couldn't be allowed to happen. It all came back to the key. Nick's ancestors had died under torture rather than surrender it and there was little doubt in Renard's mind that its current owner felt the same way. No immediate solution came to mind.

There were things they could do, though. They all had contacts, people who would keep an eye open for any sign of Royal activities here in Portland. Henrietta had her own network of Hexenbiester, some of them with ties to Europe and, just as important, she and Rosalee would create a Zaubertrank meant to ward off the more common location spells and truth potions. Hank's task was to work the legal angle, use police resources to find out what arrangements Viktor had under his own name, check flights, hotels and follow whatever leads that got him. 

No clear strategy involved, but when talk finally petered out, a lot of the tension had drained away. Looking at the friendly faces around him, Renard had to remind himself that he couldn't rely on these people. He couldn't rely on anyone when it came to his own future.

Hank pushed back his chair and stood.

“I'd better get started, I guess. One more thing, though: Those keys are pretty special, right? Has your cousin ever seen one, Captain?”

Raking his memory, Renard frowned. “I don't think he could have. Those keys are the stuff of legend – the Royal Houses used to hold four, but they disappeared centuries ago. There are rumors one of the other families got their hands on one during the Franco-Prussian War, but nobody ever came forward and even if it's true, they wouldn't risk displaying it to visitors. Why are you asking?”

“No particular reason. I was just thinking of an old case. Anyway, I'm off. Take care, everybody.”

Not much of an explanation, but Hank's departure might as well have been some kind of signal. As though on cue everybody was getting ready to leave. Renard felt Nick's eyes on him as he made his way to his car. He didn't offer more than a brief goodbye, though, very much aware that now more than ever they needed to be careful. 

It was Rosalee who followed him out to the car, eyes skimming the black line of trees as though expecting an attack. He ought to find some words to reassure her, Renard realized. She would know just what Viktor was planning to do with any information he got from them. He couldn't quite bring himself to lie to her, though. If it came down to his own survival – and Nick's – there were no promises he could make.  
Rosalee didn't ask any questions. She merely held out a jar filled with a pinkish liquid, which, instinctively, Renard took and turned in his hands. He had seen something like this before.

“It's called 'Schau mich nicht an'.* If you have anything in your place or at the precinct you'd rather Viktor and his people didn't notice, you smear this on it. It doesn't make anything invisible, but it makes people inclined to … look in another direction.”

For a moment, Renard didn't know what to say. Uncertainty creeping into her eyes, Rosalee shifted. 

“I'm sure Henrietta can come up with something better-”

“No. No, I just- Thank you. This will definitely prove useful.”

Rosalee was always pretty, but her smile made her beautiful. She nodded, briefly looking over her shoulder, at the bulk of the house squatting behind them.

“Nick seems better doesn't he? More … together somehow.”

A quick image of Nick naked and panting and very much not together flashed in front of Renard's eyes. He quickly blinked it away.

“He just needed a little time to deal with what happened. Nick is strong. I always expected him to do well.”

“Yeah. He is strong. But he wasn't in a good place and nothing we did seemed to make any difference. You got through to him. And I think he got through to you.”

What had Henrietta been saying to her? Renard looked down, pretending to study the jar he was still holding. He wanted, he realized, to tell Rosalee the truth, to confess everything that had happened with Nick and have her – what? Tell him that it was all right? That he wasn't taking advantage? Receive absolution. The urge passed as quickly as it had come.

“Well, I am glad Nick is doing well – and I'll be even happier once my cousin is dealt with. Take care of yourself, Rosalee. The spice shop is not an unlikely place for Viktor's people to visit. If I were you, I'd be wary of any new customers with … unusual requests.”

Rosalee's smile didn't fade. Already turning, she briefly touched Renard's arm.

“I will. I guess I don't have to tell you to be careful. Just – I know you want to do the right thing.”

*

Renard had rarely been happier to arrive in the comparative safety of his home and find it quiet, empty. Whatever Viktor was planning, it obviously wasn't happening today. All the same, he wasn't at all surprised when, about an hour later, he got a call from his doorman, announcing that he had a visitor. Setting down his drink, Renard went to the door. For the second time that day, he found himself face to face with Henrietta. The Hexenbiest smiled.

“Aren't you going to ask me inside, Sean? A drink would be welcome.”

Renard wordlessly stepped aside, grateful that his housekeeper had tidied up and Nick's things were nowhere in evidence. He went to the kitchen to fetch a second glass and fill it with ice from the fridge. By the time he returned, Henrietta had settled down in the living room, idly studying the bottle of scotch he had left on the side table. She poured herself a generous portion, then lifted her glass in a mock salute.

“Really, Sean, all those weeks without even a call? You ought to be grateful I've known you long enough to assume that silence on your part means that everything is well.”

Amusement was plain in Henrietta's velvety voice and, in spite of himself, Renard smiled.

“Didn't Rosalee keep you informed? I gathered the two of you have been spending time together.”

An amused chuckle.

“We share a few interests.”

“Such as myself?”

She didn't even bother to deny it. Hexenbiester, Renard thought darkly, were difficult to control at the best of times and damned near impossible to intimidate if they had known you since you were a kid. As though in response to that thought, Henrietta tutted as though admonishing an unruly child.

“You are Elizabeth's boy. Of course I take an interest. Speaking of which, why don't you tell me about that Grimm of yours?”

“Why don't you tell me what you are doing here? If I am not very much mistaken, my cousin is having the building watched. His men will have seen you.”

No need to explain the implications of that.

“Rosalee is right. That family of yours needs to understand that you are no longer on your own,” Henrietta said, dark eyes fixed on Renard with troubling intensity, “You need to understand that you are no longer on your own.”

Not knowing what to say, Renard took another sip. The burn of liquor helped hide his confusion, accounted for the sudden spread of warmth in his stomach. He looked at his old friend.

“I wouldn't have asked this of you.”

“Which is appreciated. I assure you that I do not give my support lightly. Sean, will you forgive an old friend for offering unsolicited advice?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, you have to listen, unless you want me to raise the issue in front of everybody. Forgiveness, on the other hand...”

Forgiveness. She wasn't asking much, was she? Not sure at all he wanted to hear what Henrietta had to say, Renard finally, grudgingly, bit out: “Speak.”

“You are cautious, Sean. That's a good thing – it's kept you alive. But caution can paralyze you when you ought to be moving forward. Making a bid for what you want means taking risks – even when there is a lot at stake.”

It would be easy to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about, easier still to simply brush her off. Renard said quietly: “It's not as simple as that.”

For a moment, he thought Henrietta was going to press the issue, but she merely laughed, a warm, dark sound that reminded Renard of his youth. 

“Isn't it? You would know better than me, I suppose. I-”

The doorbell rang once more, making both of them tense. Henrietta put down her glass, woge rippling over her features.

“Are you expecting visitors?”

Raising an eyebrow to remind his guest of her own unannounced appearance, Renard got up. He was still carrying a gun, but he doubted he'd need it. Not letting himself examine his emotions too closely, he called down to the lobby. When he told Henrietta who was on his way up, he received a laugh of pure delight.

“The Grimm! Oh, Sean, you have been holding back on me. And to think you let me carry on like that!”

Nick was against him the second he opened the door, which would have been welcome ordinarily, but right now posed a bit of a problem. Very much aware of their audience, Renard gently disentangled himself. Behind him, Henrietta cleared her throat and, instantly, Nick's eyes widened, a delightful little flush spreading over his face.

“Oh. I didn't expect-”

Henrietta rose gracefully and reached for her purse. She seemed, Renard thought gloomily, far too pleased with herself.

“Oh, never mind me. I was just about to leave. Take good care of Sean, little Grimm. He puts up a good front, but he's not as cold as he pretends he is.”

With that, the Hexenbiest swept out, leaving both men more than a little flustered in her wake. Nick closed the door with a deliberately careful movement that spoke of the urge to slam it shut. When Renard would have said something, he leaned in again, chest against chest.

“Don't.”

At a loss, Renard wrapped his arms around Nick. He could feel that strong body vibrate with tension, feel Nick's fist clench into the fabric of his jacket. It had been a long day for both of them. Juliette might have known how to soothe, offer soft touches and the warm scent of her body. Juliette wasn't here, though. With a wry smile, Renard thought that this was certainly a far cry from any idea he might have had of handling a Grimm even a few years ago. This was Nick, though, his Grimm. Perhaps it was time to stop thinking.

Instinct taking over, Renard took a step forward, then another, backing Nick against the wall. He found his Grimm's mouth and kissed him deeply. So good. Nick's fingers were digging into his shoulders, trying to drag him closer still and this, at least, was something he knew how to to do. His Zauberbiest was stirring, murmuring to touch and claim and fuck. As though in response Nick's hips surged forward, a small sound of need escaping his lips to be swallowed into the kiss. Finally the need to breathe became overwhelming and, with a last lick into that addictive mouth, Renard pulled away. Nick was looking up at him with dazed eyes, tongue darting out to lick swollen lips. The Grimm drew a ragged breath.

“What do you want?”

God. So many things. Everything, all at once. To simply rut against Nick until they both reached orgasm. To learn all the tastes and textures of Nick's skin, of his sweat and spit and come. To be sucked by him, pretty reddened lips wrapped around his cock, tongue playing over the slit. To fuck Nick's mouth until he spilled his seed down his throat, hand tight in his hair, owning. To fuck that firm, tight ass hard and deep and know the Grimm could take it, would take it all.

“Bed?”

Nick's voice was rough with lust as it cut through the barrage of images. Bed. Yes. Nick naked and spread out like a feast, his for the taking.

They managed to walk without breaking contact, impatiently tugging at clothes, fumbling with buttons. Renard stared as Nick pulled his T-shirt over his head in one sinuous movement, almost missed a step in his haste to follow suit. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the need to keep touching, kissing, overwhelming. Mouths fused together, they finally stumbled into the bedroom. Getting rid of pants and shoes and socks was fast if not particularly graceful. Renard tumbled Nick onto the bed, very much aware that he was only able to do so, because the other man allowed it. Aware that his Zauberbiest was perilously close to the surface, he took a moment to steady himself. It wouldn't do to lose control.

Nick's chest was dusted lightly with hair, small, brown nipples perking readily under lips and fingers. It was still hard to believe that he was suddenly allowed to touch – encouraged to, in fact. Renard ran his hands over flank and belly, traced the sharp jut of a hipbone. Nick was delightfully responsive, all startled gasps and sweet little mewling noises. Sucking vivid, red marks into the soft skin below the stomach, Renard caught himself humming happily. Marking a Grimm. 

“Sean, please!”

Need was plain in those two words and, pulling back a little, Renard smiled. It seemed he had been doing well. There was a light sheen of sweat on his lover's skin and further down that gorgeous body irrefutable proof of his arousal. Nick pushed himself to his elbow, one hand extended, offering a small bottle. Lube – and a condom. Renard managed to raise an eyebrow as though his breath didn't catch at the implications.

“How long have you been carrying that around with you?”

“You've kept me waiting.”

Nick was smiling, but his eyes were serious. Throat tight, Renard gaze swept down that gorgeous body. He could do this. The lube felt cool on his fingers, familiar. By contrast, the way those long legs fell open and the first slick touch was achingly new. Renard skirted Nick's cock – rising flushed and proud from its nest of dark curls – and traced the crease where thigh met torso until he reached his goal. The first press inside produced a low, drawn-out moan. Nick was deliciously tight, squirming at the intrusion even as he arched into the touch. Drinking in every minute reaction, Renard added a second finger, scissoring, twisting. He found the spot that made Nick gasp and push back against his hand and worked it mercilessly. Someday soon he was going to make his Grimm come like this – just from a couple of fingers up his ass, cock untouched and begging. Not now, though. Now he was going to take everything Nick was offering, everything he had been denying himself.

Renard briefly drew back to roll on the condom and slick himself, jaw clenching as he circled the base of his cock with thumb and forefinger. The harsh pressure helped a little, but all the same one look at Nick was almost enough to undo him: Hair sweaty and messy, mouth open, kiss-bruised, panting, hands tangled into the sheets, legs spread invitingly, drawn up to show – everything. Then he was pressing forward, moving into position. Renard couldn't decide where he wanted to look: Down to the place where their bodies were joining – his own hand on Nick's cock, pumping hard; his cock disappearing into that tight ring of muscle – or up to watch Nick's face as he was breached. Either. Both.

Once he was fully sheathed, Renard kept himself very still. He wasn't a small man, could feel the shudders wrecking the body beneath – around – his. Nick wasn't having any of it, though.

“Sean!”

Renard shifted, slipping almost all the way out even as he gripped Nick's hips. The first real thrust had both of them groaning harshly. The angle was even better that way, allowing for smoother movement, a deeper penetration. He was fucking Nick, Renard realized with a heady rush of excitement, Nick who was meeting strength with strength, who was moaning his name over and over again. It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't be feeling this right, this good, so much like everything he had ever dreamed of. It simply couldn't. Then Nick was reaching up and, cupping his nape with a strong, sure grip, pulled his head down. Mouths fused together, bodies joined in the most elemental way possible, Sean Renard knew peace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I spent several weeks abroad last months and fell behind schedule. It shouldn't happen again :) Thanks so much for all your comments and support. I'm really happy so many people like this story!

It was all Renard could do to maintain some form of his usual routine: Get up early and hit the gym or, on occasion, the shooting range. Go to work and deal with whatever emergencies had arisen. Supervise his detectives and handle administrative problems, the countless demands of running a smooth department. No matter what else might be happening, Renard had a job to do and he was determined to do it well. A rap at the door made him lift his head. Recognizing Hank, he motioned him inside with a quick wave. To Renard's surprise the man following on the detective's heels wasn't Nick. Renard straightened as Monroe ducked through the door. A quick glance out into the bullpen before Hank closed the door and drew the blinds confirmed that the Grimm was indeed nowhere in evidence. Well, this should be interesting.

Renard waited patiently as his two visitors looked at each other. Finally Monroe stepped forward and placed a small velvet pouch onto the desk.

“Take a look at this.”

Upending the bag onto a pile of paperwork waiting for his attention, Renard hissed in surprise. Nick had sworn that he had found a suitable hiding place. He knew how much danger this would be putting his friends in, should have known better than to-

“We had one of Monroe's friends make this. Guy's a locksmith, regular human. We were real careful not to let anyone see us,” Hank said, voice carefully neutral. 

Renard looked down at what looked exactly like the key he had briefly taken from Nick what felt like a lifetime ago. The metal seemed old, worn, edges blunted, but the lines of the map were clearly defined. The sheer audacity of it was staggering. Renard unfolded the key, studied it from all sides.

“The map?”

Monroe looked proud: “Won't lead anyone anywhere. This is not – how should I put it? – an exact copy. Look for yourself.”

The Blutbad produced a wrinkled piece of paper carrying a stamp of what would be the real map. It took Renard a moment to find an inkpad, but when he stamped the fake next to the original the differences were immediately obvious. He drew a deep breath, but when he looked up he was feeling almost giddy.

“Does Nick know?”

“Not yet. We told him Hank had an idea that required the original key, but we wanted to run this by you first, since you'll be the one, who- uh.”

Who would be betting his life on the hope that nobody would be able to tell the difference. It made sense that Hank should be the one to come up with such a simple solution – he was human, least steeped in the mystery of the keys, the almost religious fervor they evoked within the Wesen-world. Yes. This might work. If they played their cards just right, if Viktor was as arrogant as he appeared to be, there was every chance it wouldn't even occur to him that they were trying to play him false. Or better still, work out some minor deception for him to uncover, let him think he was the clever one. Renard realized that the three of them were grinning at each other in a moment of shared elation. He looked at Hank and nodded, knowing the other man would understand. Turning to Monroe, however, he was at a loss. They had never been comfortable with each other: Blutbad and Zauberbiest – not quite traditional enemies, but predators both and very much aware of the potential threat the other presented. More than that, however, Nick stood between them. On some level Renard appreciated the protectiveness the Blutbad regularly exhibited, the help he'd been giving, but all the same the man himself never failed to set his teeth on edge. A missed opportunity, perhaps. The niggling awareness that it could have been Renard Nick trusted, Renard Nick turned to when he needed help.

Monroe was Nick's friend, though. Perhaps it was worth making a little effort.

“Thank you. I know you've taken a risk, having this made.”

The Blutbad shifted, eyes turning wary. 

“I've taken plenty of risks for Nick before.”

Renard nodded even as he scooped up the key and returned it into its velvet pouch. The fewer people saw this, the better.

“I know you have. You're a good friend.”

More than that, truth to be told. Hank, who had been silently watching their exchange, cleared his throat.

“So, this might work? We tell Nick? It's his call as well.”

Of course. Hank's loyalty to his partner was a good thing, Renard reminded himself. Suddenly uncomfortable, he wondered what the Grimm would make of this, of the plan that was slowly starting to take form in his mind. He felt quite sure that there were parts of it that Nick wouldn't like one bit.

Since Renard had an important meeting coming up, they agreed that the two others would tell Nick. Already at the door, Monroe turned back once more, an unexpected flash of humor in his eyes.

“That family of yours is a real piece of work. And to think that you used to be our biggest problem...”

Said with such heart-felt sentiment, Renard couldn't quite hide a smile.

*

By the time Renard made it home, it was late. He paused in the the hallway, taking in all the little signs that spoke of Nick's continued presence: The soft shine of light from the living room, a jacket hung carelessly by the door, the half-eaten bowl of cereal that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter. Nick himself was sprawled comfortably on the couch, shoes kicked off, bare feet propped up on the coffee table as he flipped through the channels. The ease with which his home had been taken over ought to have been galling, but the thought died as quickly as it had been born when Nick lifted the beer he was holding, lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle in a most obscene mane, head tipped back, throat working. Renard knew he was staring, couldn't quite bring himself to stop. When Nick put down the bottle, he was grinning.

“I can hear your heartbeat speed up from all the way over here.”

“Can you now.”

Nick shrugged, not even bothering to deny his ability. Looking at his Grimm, Renard felt his lips twitch as though they wanted to curl into a smile. It had been a good day – not just because of the fake key and the opportunities it represented. Hank and Nick had closed a big case today, a series of armed robberies resulting in the death of a victim. Even the arrest had been carried off without a hitch and was looking to hold up, if the paperwork currently residing on Renard's desk was any indication. It was the kind of success that reflected well on the precinct as a whole and never failed to give any cop involved a quiet sense of satisfaction. Another bad guy off the streets and Portland resting easier – at least until the next crime shook the city.

“You going to stand there all evening?”

Humor and invitation laced with a hint of challenge, a combination Renard had always found difficult to resist. When he walked over to claim a kiss, the Grimm made a small, pleased noise, lips parting readily. He just might get used to this after all, coming home to more than a place. Tongue dipping into that welcoming mouth, Renard breathed in his lover's scent. When they broke apart, Nick was panting.

“Hank showed you?”

“Yes.”

“It will work.”

It might. It was certainly more than they had had before. Renard kissed Nick again, needing the closeness, that body against his driving all doubts away, help deny the fear he wouldn't feel. Nick seemed to sense his need, kissed back just as insistently. Finally sharp teeth dug into Renard's lower lip, hard enough to be interesting. Then harder still. 

“Wait. There's something we have to take care of first.”

In spite of his words, Nick leaned in for another kiss, a slow, filthy slide of tongue that left both men gasping for breath. In the end, it took them several more minutes to disentangle themselves. Renard watched Nick make his way to the kitchen, lips stretching into a smile that felt alien on his face – too wide, too happy. They had been making out like teenagers and all he could think was that he wanted more. As a result, Renard probably didn't consider the small, tightly stoppered vial Nick placed in front of him with the suspicion it warranted. Zaubertrank. Tilting the murky liquid into the light, he raised an eyebrow.

“Henrietta and Rosalee?”

“Yeah. I'm afraid it tastes as bad as it looks. Best get it over with, though, so we can – you know...”

The glint in Nick's eyes held more than a hint of promise, but in spite of that additional incentive Renard couldn't suppress a shudder. He knew enough about Hexenbiest potions to guess at some of the ingredients that had gone into the making of this. Nick was right. Best get it over with. Pouring the Zaubertrank straight down his throat, Renard nonetheless tasted the bitterness, felt the burn. Almost instantly, a wave of dizziness washed over him. Grateful he was sitting, he carefully put down the vial. Foolish. To take a Zaubertrank without making sure what it was. He had trusted Henrietta and Rosalee, had trusted Nick, Nick whose lips were back against his. The nausea passed, quickly replaced by familiar warmth. When they broke apart, Nick's fingers ghosted over his temple, his cheek.

“Sorry. I should have warned you. You better now?”

Renard nodded, any answer he might have mad lost when Nick stepped between his legs, hands settling firmly on his shoulders.

“Good. Because I'd just hate for you to be uncomfortable in any way. That tie, for instance, seems awfully tight. Maybe I should help you with that?”

“Maybe you should.”

With a small hum of approval, Nick made short work of the offending garment. Renard had to admit that clothing seemed somewhat superfluous, constrictive even, as warm breath fanned over his ear followed by a sharp nip of teeth. Nick's mouth left a moist trail on his skin, tongue and lips teasing, closing first around one nipple, then another.  
Carding his fingers through dark hair, Renard allowed himself to lean back. He closed his eyes, wanting to feel every kiss, every caress. Nick was moving lower still, kneeling as he pulled Renard's shirt from his pants and mouthed at his pecs. Then, abruptly, that teasing touch disappeared. Nick was looking up at him, eyes dark with intent.

“I've been thinking about sucking your cock all afternoon. How you'd taste, how you'd feel on my tongue.”

It was – surely there was something he could say that would make Nick feel as wrecked as he was. Renard groaned again as his pants were undone, eased off his hips. If the Grimm was listening to his heartbeat now, Renard thought disjointedly, he was hearing a damned thunderstorm.  
Then Nick was leaning down, tongue darting out to lick broad stripe up the length of his cock. When he looked up again, his grin was positively wicked.

“More?”

“Always.”

More was Nick's mouth on his cock, sweet and insistent. More was the slick drag of Nick's tongue over the crown right before a stuttering slide of down, down, down. Fingers scrabbling on the slick leather of the couch, Renard groaned, a low, broken sound working itself up from deep within his chest. It was a struggle to keep from thrusting. Nick's hands were steady on his hips until all of a sudden his grip relaxed, tongue snaking down Renard length by way of permission. He came far too soon, cock jammed into that smiling mouth, molten heat curling around his spine.  
As soon as he was able to move, Renard pushed himself to his feet. For what he had in mind, the sleek, stylishly curved leather sofa was not the right venue. Nick didn't resist as he was pulled towards the bedroom, as he as undressed and unceremoniously shoved down. All Renard could think was that this was what he had always wanted – Nick writhing beneath him, skin sweat-slick, lips wet and swollen as he moaned for more. 

Some time later they were moving together with effortless grace, not thinking, reduced to instincts and sensations and if this was escape, neither of them wanted it to end. It did end, eventually.

*

Sweat was cooling on Renard's body. He reached out blindly to find Nick stretching next to him, a slow, languid movement punctuated by a small wince. The Grimm looked up, hair falling messily into his face.

“Damn. That was – damn.”

Humming agreement, Renard ran an appreciative hand down Nick's back to rest on the curve of his ass. Even though he felt quite thoroughly sated, some part of him still wanted to dip his thumb into Nick's crack, see whether he could get him to make all those sweet noises all over again. It was unexpected, this insatiable desire for more. In Renard's experience, the more desperately you wanted something, the bigger the let-down when you eventually got it, except Nick was … Nick. Pleasure and power all rolled into one: To make a new love twist and moan, to be doing this to a Grimm. A Grimm that was smiling sleepily as he shifted closer, breaths slowing, deepening. Already close to drifting off himself, Renard tightened his arms around his lover as though Nick might be snatched from him any second. He might be. He had been.

One of Nick's nightmares roused Renard a little before dawn. It wasn't as bad as it used to be, a weak, fleeting thing easily soothed by gathering Nick into his arms and running soothing hands up and down his back. After a while, the Grimm sighed.

“Once this... thing with your family is done, I'll start looking for a place of my own. Can't crash on Monroe's couch forever.”

For long seconds Renard struggled to absorb the information, filter through the things Nick was trying to tell him.

“Juliette?”

“It's over. I went to see her the other day, told her I ain't going to leaving Portland. She kept looking at me like she was expecting me to say something, do something, and then she just … nodded. She wasn't even angry. Just said she'd have my things put into storage.”

Nick was mumbling, words hard to make out as they petered out. Not trusting himself to say anything remotely appropriate when part of him wanted to crow with possessive joy, Renard kept his mouth shut. He continued to hold Nick, though, continued his slow caresses for a long time.

The phone was ringing, insistently, incessantly. Renard managed to get up with some effort, gently dislodging Nick whose head had been resting on his chest. Sunlight was falling onto the floor in a broad stripe, early morning gray rather than midday bright. The ringtone was that of the phone reserved for emergencies in the Wesen-world. Unknown caller. This couldn't be good. The voice on the other end of the line jolted him fully awake. Damn it. He shook Nick's shoulder even as he put the call on speaker. It was barely more than a few minutes' warning, not enough time to do much of anything. Renard turned to Nick, trying to guess at his state of mind. The latter seemed very much Grimm – white-faced, lips tight. 

“We need to get moving.”

They did move, throwing on clothes, tearing the windows open, desperately trying to remember things they ought to be hiding. The doorman called to let them know guests were on their way up and Renard took a second to stand still, compose himself. He briefly caught Nick's wrist.

“Will you be all right?”

A deep breath followed by a nod.

“I'll manage. He's trying to piss us off, isn't he? Coming here at this hour, knowing he isn't welcome.”

It was certainly a demonstration of power. Cupping Nick's nape, Renard briefly pulled the other man against him. 

“Don't give him what he wants, then. We need to play Viktor, not let him play us. Just-”

There wasn't time for anything else. The Verrat guards came in first, sniffing the air as they took their positions on opposite sides of the room. Hundjäger. Then Viktor himself strode in, eyeing the airy room with its stark, modern decor with visible disdain.

“Cousin. I wished to see how you live. How fortunate for you to have such simple tastes.”

Knowing better than to react to the insult, Renard motioned his cousin into the living room with exaggerated courtesy. Nick lingered in the hallway for a moment, marking the position of the Hundjäger before his eyes settled on Viktor with angry intensity. It couldn't be helped. Either Nick would lose it or he wouldn't. Wondering which it would be was a distraction Renard couldn't afford, not with so much else hanging in the balance. He made himself smile.

“I am fortunate, indeed. Particularly to be receiving such illustrious visitors.”

Without further ceremony, Viktor settled himself onto one of the big armchairs.He snapped his fingers at one of the Hundjäger.

“I believe my cousin wishes to offer me coffee. See that you find some. Preferably drinkable.”

The woman nodded briskly and turned towards the kitchen. Nick neatly stepped into her way, held his ground until she was forced to stop or get into a scuffle. Eyes never leaving the Hundjäger, Nick inclined his head the tiniest fraction.

“I'll get the coffee. If that's all right with you, Sean?”

It was all Renard could do to hide his surprise. He rallied quickly, however. If this was Nick's version of playing Viktor, he was going to take full advantage of it. Nodding coolly, he took a seat opposite of Viktor in an identical chair. Appearances mattered.

“Do so. If she offers violence, you may kill her.”

Viktor's sharp intake of breath was undeniably sweet.

“Well, well, well. You certainly appear to be making progress. Tell me, cousin, did you pick up where Eric left off or are you that good a lay?”

Viktor paused for a moment, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction. When none came, he shifted, eyes narrowing. Nick returned with the coffee, placing a second mug in front of Renard without being prompted. He could work with that, Renard thought, smile deepening. Just as important, he could tell it was driving Viktor crazy.  
Even now Nick didn't sit down. Instead, he moved to stand behind Renard's chair, mirroring the Hundjäger's watchful stance. A few seconds ticked by until finally, with an unwilling twist of mouth, Viktor broke the silence.

“I have come to inform you that I will be leaving Portland tomorrow. I expect your presence in Vienna within the week.”

The 'or else' was left unspoken, but then, Viktor hardly needed to repeat his threats. When Renard didn't answer right away, his cousin leaned forward.

“I said it once and I'll say it again: Let us cease this foolishness. We do not like each other. I do not care whether you live or die – in fact, I might prefer you dead. I think it would spare Kronenberg a lot of trouble down the road. This is the king's will. I do not know how to make myself any clearer than that.”

By Viktor's standard the whole speech was almost cordial. Eyes narrowing, Renard studied his cousin, noting the lines of tension around his mouth. Nick had been wrong. There was more to this visit then the desire to cause trouble. Somebody had forced Viktor's hand. Renard lifted his glass in a mock-salute.

“I am sure we would both hate to disappoint my father.”

This time Viktor was the one who remained silent. He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing delicately as he put the cup aside. Renard allowed himself a tiny moment of satisfaction. Then Viktor's eyes narrowed, swept past him.

“Did you tell Nick about the child, I wonder? Such a pretty little girl – half-breed, of course, and technically not even that. Naturally some members of the family find her presence in the palace … offensive. For the time being she is protected, but we all know how quickly circumstances can change.”

Looking into those reptilian eyes, it was all Renard could do to suppress a snarl. Damn the man. He could feel Nick's anger like a physical force in his back, the intensity of his tension.

“He told me her name is Diana.”

“So it is.”

It was obviously Viktor had said everything he had intended to say. He stood and gestured for his guards to get the car ready. Already at the door, he briefly turned back.

“Tell me, Nick, have you recently spoken to that lovely young lady of yours?”

“That's none of your business.”

Nick's tone was barely civil, but, uncharacteristically, Viktor merely smiled. Once the last Hundjäger had left, Renard exhaled sharply. He rose quickly and turned to face Nick. The Grimm's eyes were fixed on the closed door, unblinking and bright with fury. Nick all but snarled.

“We could have taken them. Monroe and I have fought Hundjäger before – they aren't that hard to kill. And Viktor-”

Viktor didn't seem like much of a fighter. Renard felt his woge shiver under his skin, his Zauberbiest echoing the Grimm's aggression. It always seemed closer to the surface when he was close to Nick. Knowing that he had to diffuse the situation, he made himself smile.

“I would appreciate if any any bloodbaths you orchestrate did not take place in my apartment. My housekeeper would skin me alive.”

Nick made a startled sound, more snort than laugh. He leaned in, though, resting his forehead against Renard's shoulder.

“I need to show you something.”

His voice sounded muffled, but in spite of his words, Nick didn't move away. For a minute or so, they simply stood holding each other close. Some of the tension was draining out of Nick's body and, humming approval, Renard ran soothing hands up and down the long line of the other man's back. A little sigh fanned against his neck even as arms tightened around his waist.

“You aren't going to like this.”

Nick did pull back, then, and briefly disappeared down the hallway. When he returned, he was carrying a manila envelope similar to the one that contained Diana's files. He placed it onto the dining room table.

“I already told you that I went to see Juliette. That's when she gave me these.”

'These' turned out to mean photos, about a dozen of them. Large prints on glossy paper, the colors so intense they were almost lurid. Nick with a woman, with several women, not quite naked but not far from it either. They didn’t look staged. Nobody was even looking into the camera, but the lust on the faces was clear enough. Abandon. More of the same with a man thrown into the mix and Renard quickly put that one aside. The last photos were different. The scene was familiar, bodies on the ground, except that the blood was fresher, redder, and there were no crime scene markers. One of the pictures was wrinkled, as though it had been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out again. In this one Nick was looking into the camera, holding a gory blade that looked like a cross between a machete and a short sword. There was triumph in his eyes. These had to be the photos Eric had talked about. Renard breathed out slowly, mind racing.

“How?”

“The envelope was left on Juliette's doorstep about two weeks ago – at our old house. She's been holding on to them ever since.”

Renard remembered the baron's head, Juliette's reaction, her horror at the casual cruelty of it all. Nothing particularly Wesen about that either, just ordinary human savagery and perhaps all the worse for it. 

“So she knows.”

“She was waiting for me to tell her. I didn't. Look, I don't really want to talk about it – her – any more. I can't.”

Nick was clearly trying hard to keep it together, fists clenched, jaw working. Juliette. She'd be devastated. Nothing that could helped right now. As Nick had said, it was over and done with. The pictures were still on the table in front of them, spread out like an accusation. Renard's eyes caught on one that had Nick sprawling languidly on a sofa, head thrown back, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted and swollen as though he had just been kissed. His shirt was unbuttoned, gaping open to expose a large, tanned hand splayed on his stomach. The surge of desire was instant, mixed with fierce, undirected anger, the source of which Renard did not really care to contemplate. He had to force himself to look away.

“Viktor would have sent these.”

To him, it would have been a minor gambit, a passing amusement in a bigger game, nothing he would expect to be called to account for. Nothing that mattered, really. Except that it did. 

“They'll pay for this.”

Not a promise he ought to be making, but one Renard fully intended to keep. Hell, he would happily lay the body of every single member of house Kronenberg at Nick's feet, if only it would chase the lost look from those eyes. The Grimm nodded tightly even as he gathered the pictures together. He jammed them back into the envelope with uneven, jerky motions before looking up.

“Is it too early to start drinking?”

Forcing his own emotions down, Renard made himself smile. Whatever Nick needed right now.

“Well, they say that it's never too early for champagne.”

“I thought champagne was for when you have something to celebrate.”

Renard's lips twitched into a genuine smile.

“I'd say it's for any occasion that requires alcohol before 10 am. Let me check the fridge.”

Since that kind of occasion featured pretty regularly in Renard's life, the fridge was well-stocked. He returned with an open bottle, two glasses and a tub of cold lasagna in lieu of anything resembling breakfast. Nick gulped down the first glass as soon as it was put in front of him and, refraining from commenting, Renard immediately poured him another. Nick took it automatically, didn't look up even as he spoke.

“You're going to go to Vienna, aren't you?”

“Nick-”

“Because of the little girl. Your daughter.”

For a moment, Renard considered denying the obvious, if only to buy them a little peace. He couldn't quite bring himself to speak the words, give flesh to the lie. Finally Nick lifted his head.

“You're right. They're going to pay.”

His earlier words repeated back at him with quiet venom. It shouldn't feel like comfort.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, the big showdown is rapidly drawing nearer. Off to Europe we go, where we will meet several more amazing characters.
> 
> I also just finished writing the last scene and fixed the final number of chapters: 10 + Epilogue. Only editing and posting remains. I am so looking forward to finding out what you guys think! Thank you all so much for your support!

The tangle of voices would have been enough to give anyone a headache. Renard listened to Rosalee's anxious objections, to the low rumble of Monroe's anger and Hank's careful questions. They were in the back of the spice shop, door firmly locked against customers and unlikely to be reopened any time soon. Nick himself had been ominously quiet, since he had first said his part, the eye of the storm, unmoved and unmoving. After everything they had done to get him out of Vienna, here he was, determined to walk right back into the lion's den. It might even be funny, if the mere thought of the Grimm back within the family's sphere of influence hadn't been enough to make all of them sick to the stomach. Renard, too, wanted to rail, to order Nick to stay in Portland, stay safe and away from Viktor, but he knew better than to say any such thing. Nick didn't appreciate being told what to do – he certainly didn't appreciate being told what to do by Renard. Right now the Grimm's voice was cutting through the din.

“Guys! I appreciate your concern, I really do, but this isn't your decision.”

Nick was clearly trying for reasonable rather than angry and at least partially succeeding. He drew a deep breath and turned to Renard as though for support. Seeing the bleak determination in those blue eyes, the latter shivered. Abruptly, Nick wheeled back to face his friends.

“Please listen to me! It's not just that our plan will work better with me there to support Sean. Viktor has something on me. There are pictures of me, of things Eric made me do. I need to find them and destroy them and I can't do that unless I go. It's better that you don't know all the details. You'll just .. have to trust me, I guess.”

If Renard wasn't very much mistaken, this was the first time Nick had as much as alluded to what had really happened in Vienna in front of his friends. It was enough of an admission for Rosalee to draw a sharp breath and exchange a concerned look with Monroe. Suspicions confirmed at the very least. Before either of them could speak, Hank cleared his throat.

“Look, I won't pretend that I know as much about what Nick's been through as the rest of you. What I do know, is my partner. I work with Nick every day and I've watched him struggle. He's better now. So, if he says that he needs to do this, I believe him. If he says, he can handle it, I trust him.”

People continued to underestimate Hank. Looking at the grateful smile spreading over Nick's face, Renard couldn't help but wonder just how big a difference his partner's support had made over the years. He had seen it before, the trust Nick inspired in his friends, but he had never actually witnessed it happening, the way the group seemed to pull together around him. After Hank's initial vote of confidence, it didn't take long for Monroe to rally, angry objections crumbling into something akin to acceptance. Rosalee was a harder sell – at least until Nick reminded her of the bigger picture, the near certainty that with nothing to divert his attention, Viktor would zero in on the Läufer next. It was impressive as hell, the way Nick tackled the group, wearing them down one by one with the relentless, singular focus of his conviction. He turned to Renard last, confidence unwavering. No appeal to his better nature this time, no elaborate plea for trust.

“You said it yourself, Sean: We need to play Viktor, not let him play us. Think about how good I'll make you look – to have finally tamed the Grimm.” Then, as though going in for the kill: “You know that your chances are better with me, than without me.”

*

That night they didn't have sex. With the blinds drawn the bedroom lay in near darkness, a warm, comfortable haven to hide in. Nick lay unmoving, body curled in, facing Renard. Their chests were rising in the same rhythm, warmth spreading from the places where skin touched skin. Finally Nick sighed, breaking their stalemate.

“Aren't you going to tell me to behave?”

“Do I have to?”

Nick knew, didn't he? How things were going to be, how quickly everything could go to hell. Nick shifted, stretching his legs to line up their bodies more solidly, reassurance as much as contact. His voice was little more than a whisper.

“They'll pay.”

And God, Renard thought, he should have seen this coming. Nick couldn't make a decision like that and not feel the need to do something about it. It would feed right into his underlying urge to face down the people who had seen him beaten, to prove to the world that he wasn't broken. It was admirable, in a way. It was also damned inconvenient. Renard drew a deep breath, taking in his lover's scent.

“There's no chance at all that you'll change your mind.”

Nick didn't even dignify that with an answer. Pragmatism kicking in, Renard turned to the practical consideration. It seemed some kind of lecture was due after all.

“You will behave, Nick. You'll obey my commands even when I don't have the time to explain myself, even when I ask you to do things you do not like. Insult Viktor, if you must, but follow my lead. No violence unless we are attacked. This is about surviving to fight another day.”

The lack of light made it difficult to discern Nick's expression, but Renard could discern a definite sense of satisfaction even as the Grimm dipped his head. Nick knew that he had won.

“As my prince commands.”

Renard swallowed a growl. For all of his youthful fantasies of mastering a Grimm, he didn't think he'd be able to stomach two weeks of that. Not from Nick, not after everything that had happened. Thankfully a mere second later, Nick's teeth gleamed in a smile.

“I should have told Viktor that you are that good a lay. You don't have to worry about being like Eric. Being with him, obeying his orders, felt messed up even when I thought it was what I wanted. This doesn't. We don't.”

Quiet words in the darkness like an offering. Later that night, Renard murmured a quick reassurance to Nick and slid out of bed. It would be around afternoon in Europe and he had some calls to make.

*

No transatlantic flight was particularly comfortable. Renard had insisted on business class seats, which meant an opportunity to stretch out their legs, comfortable seats and better food, but the air was still stale, they were unarmed and there were too many people in too small a space. Renard didn't like any of it, knew Nick felt the same from the way the latter tensed whenever somebody approached from behind. The sentiment was altogether understandable, considering where they were heading.   
Nothing much happened, of course, other than a few blatantly inviting looks from one of the flight attendants, which Renard pointedly ignored and Nick seemed to find vastly amusing. Apparently he had picked up some German from Eric after all, none of which – judging by the pick-up lines he suggested – fit for use in polite company.  
At some point in the quiet hours midflight, Renard half-turned to the window, eyes tracing the strangely shapeless mass of clouds. Monroe had driven them to the airport. Not in his own car, thank God, Renard didn't think he'd have been able to fit himself into the Beetle, no matter what various youtube clips suggested. When it had been time to part Nick had stood almost helplessly. Monroe had hugged his friend tightly, growled promises and threats, reaffirming time and again that they would see each other again no matter what. Then, abruptly, Renard had found himself face to face with the Blutbad. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been a hand on his shoulder – half pat, half punch – or the gruff order to take care and get himself back to Portland as well. He must have said something vaguely appropriate, because Monroe and nodded and turned away. Even now all Renard could remember was staring after the man in utter bafflement.

Predictably, they were already expected. Sebastien was waiting for them at the airport, along with a driver and a man who was presumably Verrat. Sensing the tension in Nick's body, Renard stepped forward. He exchanged carefully neutral greetings with Sebastien, nodded at the others and took particular pleasure at dumping his luggage at the Verrat agent's feet. There were certain prerogatives to being royalty. Sebastien cleared his throat.

“It is not a long drive, but perhaps you would prefer to use the restroom before we leave?”

“Very well.”

As though it were a reluctant consideration. Renard nodded at Nick before leaving in the direction Sebastien indicated. He checked the stalls, locked himself to the one to the right before lifting the lid of the water tank. A plastic bag had been taped to the underside. A couple of cell phones, a gun, some knives. He took out the small plastic bottle of the 'Schau mich nicht an' he had gotten from Rosalee and dabbed it onto every item. It should do. The gun was a bit small for his hands, but came complete with holster. Renard clipped it on, briefly checked the fall of his jacket. The knives, he would pass along to Nick later.

The drive took about an hour. Sebastien rode in the back with them, didn't offer more than trivia about the countryside, the plans for the evening. Nick didn't speak at all. They did, Renard noted, take the official road, went through the main gateway. His father's command, he assumed, not Viktor's. Sebastien got out first, held the door for Renard.

“Prince Viktor requests your presence. Right away, I'm afraid. I'll have the luggage taken care of.”

Renard briefly considered refusing, saying he'd like some time to refresh himself first, but let it go. There'd be other points to make and they might as well get this much over with.

“Very well. Lead the way, then. And while your people are searching our things, they might as well unpack.”

That, at least, made Nick smile. The room they were led into featured a big sofa, a desk, several chairs. On a sideboard food had been arranged and a bottle of champagne was waiting. The trappings of hospitality. Nick looked longingly at a carafe of water, but visibly checked himself, throwing a questioning glance at Renard.

“Help yourself. We're going to have to eat something sooner or later, so we might as well test our … present. If there is anything to test.”

Viktor let them wait. Well, two could play that game. Renard poured himself a glass of champagne before sitting on the couch and reaching for a newspaper some helpful soul had left on the coffee table. After a moment Nick sat down as well, going so far as to prop up his feet. When Viktor finally did arrive, he paused in the door. It took him just a second too long to hide his displeasure.

“I see you have made yourselves comfortable.”

Renard didn't have to feign a smile: “So we have. Thank you so much for giving us a few minutes to unwind, cousin. Just what we needed.”

Nick's snort was quickly turned into an artificial cough, but he managed to lift his glass in a salute.

“Yes. Thank you. So much.”

Viktor was a prince, had been raised to this kind of grand-standing. He caught himself quickly, returning to a script he would have prepared in advance.

“I take it you had a pleasant flight? Sebastien has been taking good care of you?”

“The very best,” Renard answered, an unexpected truth in this exchange.

“As he should. So you brought it?”

“I could hardly refuse your … request.”

“Your blackmail,” Nick put in bluntly, cold anger in his voice. It was a valid point, though. Viktor's smile deepened.

“Come now, Nick. Since Sean has seen the error of his ways, there is no need for such hostility. We are all friends here. And, as a friend, I would like to see the gift you brought us.”

It was a delicate moment. With two of his demands met, Viktor might decide he didn't need their cooperation for the third. Torture would suffice to extract information. Renard held out his hand, gave the cue for the first act of their performance.

“Nick.”

He kept his eyes on Viktor, sensed more than saw Nick straighten, tug at the chain he'd been wearing around his neck. The key was warm as it dropped into Renard's hand and he briefly closed his fingers around it, a carefully calculated display of reluctance. Then, as though coming to a decision, he crossed the room and placed their carefully construed fake onto the desk in front of Viktor. It was, he thought, beautifully done.

They gave Viktor a moment to touch the key with greedy fingers, unfold it and turn it this way and that. Nick took a step forward, all Grimm now, a look of utter fury on his face. Even though he had known this was coming, a thrill went down Renard's spine.

“Nick. Stand back.”

His voice, at least, sounded calm enough, as though he were indeed expecting obedience. He was, in a way. Nick did stand back, glowering, and, neatly diverted, Viktor's eyes flicked between the two of them.

“My, my. It seems you acquired more than a key, cousin. Consider me duly impressed. But be that as it may – now that business has been taken care of, I'm sure the two of you would like to see your rooms. Sebastien should be here in a moment.”

The moment the door closed behind his cousin, Renard released a long breath. It had, all things together, not gone too badly. Nick, too, seemed surprisingly calm as he closed the distance between them, leaned in to whisper into Renard's ear under the guise of claiming a kiss.

“We did well, didn't we? God, the look on his face when he came into the room!”

Somebody noisily cleared their throat.

“I am sure you will be pleased to learn that we have prepared rooms with a connecting door.”

Sebastien, voice wry, eyes curious. The rooms turned out to be adequate. Or at least, they would have been, if Renard's hadn't contained an unwelcome surprise. He closed the door slowly, quietly, right in Sebastien's face. The woman sitting on his bed pulled back her shoulders, chin lifting a fraction. It had been more than a year.

“Mia.”

She was still beautiful. Expensively dressed, hair down around her shoulders, lips very red. One high-heeled shoe was dangling off her toes as she drew little circles with her foot.

“I heard your family was expecting you, Sean. I kind of invited myself.”

No overt hostility in her voice, nothing much to read at all. They hadn't parted on the best of terms. Before Renard could answer, a noise to his right made him turn. That would be the connecting door. Mia's eyes widened.

“The Grimm? You brought him here?”

Then, belatedly, she seemed to take in the layout of the rooms, Renard's lack of surprise at Nick's unannounced entry. 

“You are fucking him?!”

He was, Renard thought disjointedly, to be spared nothing. Nick didn't seem inclined to take this intruder in stride. He moved forward, demonstrably coming to stand next to Renard. 

“As a matter of fact, we are fucking each other. Another blonde, Sean? Just how many of them are there? Not a relation, I hope?”

Taking a deep breath, Renard resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Nick Burkhardt, Mia Gaudot. She's an old friend,” he said, denying that there had ever been anything special between them. The youngest daughter of a famously fertile family, Mia had been spoiled and indulged all her life. He had been her very own way of rebelling, a bastard, disreputable enough to feel dangerous, a few years older and, as she later told him, one of the few men whose company she enjoyed in bed as well as out of it. Not her first – that honor had gone one of her father's bodyguards just after she had turned fourteen – but the first to last longer than a few months. At the time she had been everything he had wanted in life and, for a while, he had even thought- He had been hopelessly naïve, of course. Not good enough, had been her family's verdict: not as a husband, not as the father of her children. She hadn't fought for him. To this day Renard occasionally wondered whether it might have made a difference.

Mia's smile was bitter as she slipped her foot into her shoe. 

“One of many, I am sure. Sean has always had a tendency to bed where his interests lie.”

Again, Nick took the challenge, deliberately ignoring the woman as he turned to Renard: “I believe she just called you a whore.”

“It certainly sounded that way to me. A bit crude, wouldn't you say? Even Viktor might take offense – as a matter of principle, you see, on behalf of the family.”

Mia rose hurriedly at that, as Renard had known she would. Personally, he very much doubted his cousin would be offended on his behalf even if Mia started stuffing one-dollar bills down the front of his pants. At the suggested price, perhaps. She paused briefly on her way to the door, head tilted in a way that was achingly familiar.

“I came to tell you to be careful, Sean, but I see that there is no need. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself. Please forgive an old friend for worrying.”

Nick huffed as the door closed behind her and locked it for good measure.

“She came for more than that, I'll bet. Think there are any more of them around? Should I be checking the closet?” Nick paused for a moment, fists clenched, eyes dark. Then: “Why do all the women you've been with have to be so damned … polished?”

Renard wasn't sure he'd call Adalind all that polished, but was wise enough not to bring that matter up just now. What did Nick want to hear anyway? That none of those women mattered? They didn't. Renard wasn't starting to lose count of the people he'd killed over any of them, they didn't rule his thoughts, his dreams as well as his ambitions. They certainly never made him feel safe and protective all at once upon waking up in the middle of the night with their body sprawled next to his. Another thought that didn't need to be shared right now. Swallowing irritation, Renard stepped close, brushed his lips against Nick's temple.

“Let's go to bed.”

It wasn't all that late, but jet-lag was a bitch and they'd need to be at their best tomorrow. After a few seconds Nick shuffled forward, closing the distance to lean against him.

“My things are in that room. The things I had when I was working for Eric. With a note from Viktor saying he hopes I'll feel right at home.”

Barely a whisper. The petty, pointless cruelty of it all shouldn't have come as a surprise, not after all this time. They went to clean up, shower, change, and finally curled up together in Renard's big bed. Even knowing where he was it felt good – the first slide between clean sheets, the weight of the comforter settling on his body, Nick's breath against his neck.

“Mia – is she an enemy?”

“Not an enemy – at least she didn't use to be. She's royal, though, from a different family. She'll have her own agenda.”

A small sigh as Renard turned his head to press a gentle kiss to skin starting to grow rough with stubble. 

“Not to be trusted, then. You'll have to tell me about her, some time.”

Some time. Some time he'd tell Nick about Mia's easy laughter, about setting out for the opera and having beer and fatty sausages at one of the many stalls in the city instead, about small wine shops in the outskirts of Vienna and dropping off the edge of the world in an expensive hotel room. Some day he'd tell Nick she'd tried to have Monroe killed. Starting to drift off, Renard realized with vague surprise that those memories didn't hurt any more.

*~*

Renard was woken by a discreet knock. Judging by the way the light was slanting through the windows, it was not particularly early in the morning. Nick was still mostly asleep and, gently disentangling himself, Renard tucked the sheet around him.

“Stay put. I'll see what's going on and come to get you, if it's important.”

Nick's hand briefly closed around his wrist, blue eyes flicking open.

“Mmh. Tell them I'll raise hell, if you don't come back.”

Probably nothing that would give his father pause – not here, in the very heart of his power – but Renard certainly appreciated the sentiment. Sebastien was waiting in the hallway, politely averting his eyes from the open door.

“The king wishes to see you in his study – as soon as possible. Prince Viktor is already there.”

Of course he would be. Nodding tightly, Renard looked down the corridor, spotting two guards in the immediate vicinity. They weren't taking chances with a Grimm in the house.

“Give me 15 minutes. And have breakfast sent to Nick's room.”

After a brief sojourn to the bathroom, Renard went to the closet to check his things. At least these people knew how to treat suits. Not quite quarter an hour later, he arrived at his father's study. Best not to keep a king waiting.

“My son. I cannot say how pleased I am to have you here.”

Renard always marveled at his father's ability to look like everybody's favorite uncle. Like a switch being pushed, Frederick's face would crease with a smile, eyes brightening, voice suffused with warmth. It was an act, of course, meant to lure the unwary into letting down their guard, reveal more than they had intended. His father had been king for more than three decades, had guided their house through the cold war and countless upheavings in the Wesen-world – and instigated quite a few of them himself. Not a man to be trifled with, not a man prone to forgive weakness, even within the family. Perhaps especially not within the family.

Aware that all eyes were on him, Renard took a step forward. His father waited until he was certain he would indeed kneel before gesturing expansively.

“No need for that, Sean. We do not stand of formality here. After all, we are among family. Have a seat. Have a glass of champagne – it is never too early for that, no?”

They settled around Frederick's great desk and one of the ubiquitous men in dark suits moved forward to pour for them. As he put down the bottle, the interlocked Vs tattooed into his palm briefly showed. When Viktor would have spoken, the king cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“You wish to remind me that it were your efforts that persuaded Sean to come home. I am aware.” Frederick considered Viktor for a moment, before he continued: “I am aware of everything that happens under this roof. That is as it should be.”

A clear threat in that. Renard shifted, trying to discern where this was going. He'd been away too long, couldn't even begin to unravel the web his father was spinning. Best tread carefully.

“Actually it hasn't been that long since my last visit.”

“Yes, some sort of nonsense squabble with your brother. Eric's death has been a terrible blow to us all.”

It had certainly been a blow. Renard kept his face perfectly blank. He ought to be offering condolences, somehow find words to convince his father of his sincerity. King Frederick didn't seem to notice anything amiss as he studied a bowl of fruits to his right and, after some deliberation, chose an apricot.

“His killer will be brought to justice, of course. I have entrusted Viktor with this task.”

He cut into the ripe fruit with a small knife. Stomach clenching, Renard watched the blade bite into the soft flesh, juice spilling from the wound. He straightened, forced himself to meet those cold eyes.

“I am sure your trust is well-placed, father.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Viktor knows better than to disappoint me. And, of course, you will assist him in any way you can. That is why you brought the Grimm, isn't it?”

His father was a practical man, Renard reminded himself, suddenly chilled to the bone. Grimms were too valuable to waste – provided that they could be controlled. Surprisingly, it was Viktor who spared him the need to come up with an answer.

“I am sure Sean is grieving for Eric as much as any of us, uncle. There is a more felicitous reason for his presence here, though, isn't it?”

Instantly, his father's face lit up with a smile, jovial goodwill returning.

“My first grandchild. We're all quite mad about our little princess – and she is such a joy. Starting to talk already, at such an early age.”

Frederick reached for the phone, punched a single key before picking up.

“Bring the child.”

Diana arrived mere minutes later, carried by a neatly dressed woman, presumably her nurse. At a nod from his father, she was brought straight to Renard and, for a few precious moments, everything else ceased to exist. He didn't know much about children, but Diana seemed big for her age, strong and well-formed with a face set to break hearts. Her blue eyes were wide open, serious as they studied him. She had never met him, couldn't possibly know who he was, but, after a moment, she smiled, gurgling happily even as she reached out for him. Renard's skin prickled as awareness rushed through him like his woge. This was his daughter. She was his as much as he was hers, a little girl three parts Hexenbiest and one part royal, with whatever magic Adalind had meddled with during her pregnancy thrown into the mix. She'd had Nick's blood in her system, for heaven's sake, and had anyone ever considered the implications of that?

Too soon the moment was broken. Renard made himself let go of his daughter and allowed his father to take her. Something had just happened, some sort of connection, although how exactly such a thing should be possible, he wasn't sure. A little out of sorts, he watched the King coo at Diana as she waved her hand and made a few pieces of paper float in the air, all doting grandfather. Definitely magic. The nanny was kept busy picking up and replacing the things the little girl moved telecinetically and where was Adalind? Shouldn't she be here, looking after her daughter? When Renard asked as much Viktor turned to him with his shark's smile.

“You will see her tonight at dinner. Just the family and special guests. You may bring the Grimm, if you wish. Unless you'd rather spend the evening with Mia? If memory serves, the two of you used to be close.”

“A charming girl,” King Frederick commented absentmindedly as he tried to free his tie from Diana's grasping hands. “Here, Maria, take her. I believe our little princess needs a fresh diaper. Yes, dinner. Viktor, Sean, you are both expected to attend. Nothing too lavish, we are still in mourning, but I should like to mark the occasion. You boys can catch up tomorrow, do whatever young people do to have a good time.”

A clear dismissal and, even though he knew his father was far from ignorant regarding the deadly rivalries within the family, this casual reinterpretation of reality left Renard slightly stunned and, incongruously, meeting Viktor's eyes in an unexpected moment of shared exasperation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter, although I will be probably adding an epilogue. We are finally meeting the last important character and setting the stage for the big showdown. Let me know what you think!

Nick had found the breakfast Renard had ordered on his behalf and was currently busy demolishing what had once been a generous offering. Safe, for the moment at least. Even though his stomach was still churning, Renard forced himself to eat as well – a roll, a little scrambled egg, some fruit. The first cup of coffee helped. The second even more so. Neither man spoke much, just small-talk, trivial requests to pass along the salt, comments on some particular dish. Once they were done, Renard rose unhurriedly and stalked around the table. Nick's mouth tasted of jam, sweet and ripe and irresistible. With a small sigh, Renard finally pulled away. 

“I've seen my daughter.”

Not quite what he had meant to say. It was impossible to deny the awe he still felt at the thought of Diana. Renard wouldn't have called himself paternal – what few babies he had come in contact with had never provoked more than polite interest, mostly to please invariably doting parents. Diana was different.

Nick was watching him closely, eyes narrowing as he considered whatever he read in Renard's face.

“Adalind?”

“What? No, not yet. We'll meet her later tonight. There's going to be a family dinner. You're invited.”

No need to ask whether Nick wanted to come along. He would never back down from a challenge. Which meant that he needed to know-

“There's something I need to tell you. About Adalind. It appears that she found a way to get her powers back.”

Nick instinctively bared his teeth, breath rushing out of him with a vicious hiss. Renard could sympathize. He had barely been able to believe it either, back when Sebastien had first conveyed the information. Compared to the painful finality of ordering his brother's assassination, however, of dealing with the vicious reality of Nick, the whole matter had been pushed aside. There simply hadn't been time to consider the possible consequences. Renard hurriedly pushed on.

“I don't know all the details, but she performed some ritual. It doesn't matter, Nick. Just ignore her.”

“She's the mother of your child.”

“She doesn't matter.”

It was the truth, harsh as it might sound. Finally the Grimm nodded, some of the sharpness any mention of Adalind brought out easing from his features. Clearly the Hexenbiest had been neither been forgiven nor forgotten, but she couldn't be a priority. Not to either of them. All in all, Nick was doing well enough – better than Renard had dared to hope, if yesterday's performance in front of Viktor was anything to go by. The anger was still present, had become too much a part of Nick to disappear entirely, but he seemed in control of it. Anger had its uses, as long as it didn't rob you of the ability to think.

Right now Nick was pushing his plate aside, head tilting back to expose the long line of his throat.

“Why don't we go and take a shower?”

It wasn't a bad idea. It'd be a chance to talk without the risk of being overheard, spied on. Among other things. The shower stall was big enough for two, glass and chrome set directly into the slanting floor. Nick stepped first under the hot spray, hair instantly plastered to his skull. He pushed it from his face as turned to watch Renard approach, eyes briefly trailing down his body before he lifted his chin in challenge.

“So tell me about this dinner. Who will be there?”

The water was pleasant as it slid down their bodies, the sound of it loud enough to cover anything they might say. All the same, Renard took a moment to consider his answer.

“My father and Viktor. Mia, probably, along with any other important guests my father wishes to honor. His mistress, if he happens to be keeping one of any standing at the moment. And Adalind.”

At least seven persons, themselves included, each with their own agenda. Nick shifted minutely as he considered this new information. A sharp frown creased his forehead, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop.

“What about your father? What did he want?”

“Too soon to tell. Revenge for Eric, certainly.”

“That doesn't have anything to do with us, does it?”

Some things couldn't be said even with the comparative safety of running water covering their words. Renard nodded approval.

“No it doesn't.”

“You think he suddenly remembers he has another son? Now that Eric is dead?”

Unlikely, but not impossible. Sentimental reasons might be playing a role, but Renard doubted that was all there was to it. Old age notwithstanding, his father wasn't that kind of person. He'd have some sort of plan, some goal he was pursuing. He had hoped it was just the key, that a suitable show of submission was all that was required. Now he wasn't so sure. All Frederick had talked about was family, Eric and Diana – Diana who was as vulnerable as he had feared, utterly exposed to whatever machinations were working around them.

Sensing his unease, Nick's frown deepened. He bit his lip, fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach out.

“Sean?”

Renard shook his head, impatient with himself. What had he been expecting? For things to be easy? Not damned likely, when it came to his family.

“It's all right. Listen, Nick: There are knives and a cellphone hidden among your clothes. If it looks like everything is going to hell, call Sebastien. He'll know what to do. Listen to him.”

Don't get yourself killed. Nick's arms slid around his neck then, pulled him forward until he was more solidly under the heavy spray. Closing his eyes, Renard allowed the hot water to relax the tense muscles of his nape and back. He rested his forehead against Nick's shoulder, felt callused palms skate down his sides, and who would have thought that a Grimm could be soothing? 

After a while that gentle touch turned exploratory and Nick's mouth brushed against his neck. The merest hint of teeth was enough to make Renard shiver. His cock was taking a sudden, if somewhat premature interest in the proceedings. With a growl, he pulled back a little, grabbing the Grimm's wrist to still his progress.

“Nick!”

“All right. I get it, Sean. I'll be careful. I'll call Sebastien, if there's any sign of trouble. I won't even take any of the knives you got me to dinner with your two ex-girlfriends, your asshole of a cousin and the even bigger asshole, who fathered you. Anything else?”

Knowing better than to say anything in response, Renard merely nodded and shifted his grip, fingers tracing the vein running up the inside of the other man's arm. Nick drew a shuddering breath, eyes darkening as a slow smile spread over his face. It was impossible not to kiss the curve of those lips, not to lick and bite until they parted. The kiss was deep, growing hungrier by the second. By the time Renard pulled away, he was breathing hard, blood pounding in his ears. Nick leaned back against the tiles, hips jutting forward, head tipped back, chin up. As before, Renard's eyes were drawn to the pale line of neck so offered and, without conscious thought, he pressed forward. The urge to mark was overpowering. His woge was rolling just beneath his skin as his mouth latched onto the smooth skin, teeth and suction and apologetic licks in between. The Grimm didn't seem to mind, hands clutching at Renard's shoulders to pull him closer. 

“Sean-”

Pulling back a little Renard cupped Nick's nape, traced the ridge of a collarbone, before letting his hand drift lower, feeling warmth, a steady heartbeat. Remembering that damned photo, he splayed possessive fingers over his Grimm's stomach, eyes seeking out the mark he had just left. The scent of arousal was strong enough to be perceived even through the fall of water.

“Sean!”

A command to get on with it, if he had ever heard one. Seconds later, they both looked down at Nick's cock cradled in Renard's large hand, heavy and flushed and already leaking precum. Renard shifted his grip, fingers tightening as he dragged his thumb over the head. He watched Nick closely as he set a rhythm, the way his eyes glazed over, mouth lax, panting, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.  
By now Renard knew the signs of his lover's approaching orgasm, was able to stop just in time. A low curse told him that he had judged correctly. He spun the other man around, very much aware that he was only able to do so because the Grimm allowed it. If Nick were to pit his full strength against his – well, things would get interesting. 

As it was, Nick merely braced himself against the wall. Renard took a moment to savor the sight in front of him: Broad shoulders, narrow hips, that firm ass with a small stream of water trickling down between the cheeks. Nick shifted, muscles flexing enticingly beneath smooth, wet skin. They had deposited condoms and lube in the medicine cabinet the previous night, something both of them had now reason to be deeply grateful for. Nick's skin was warm to the touch even in the heat of the shower. Desire shivering through him, Renard took a deep breath. He traced the curve of the other man's spine, squeezed those firm ass cheeks before pulling them apart. Nick shuddered beautifully at the first rub of slick fingers, back bowing in a sinful arch. The first press inside was careful, stuttering, but the way that that strong body relaxed felt like power. Two fingers next, scissoring, angling in a way he had memorized weeks ago. Renard didn't stop until he had Nick moaning, pushing back against his hand. Eventually, the Grimm keened low in his throat, a helpless little noise like surrender.

Neither of them could hold out much longer. Renard had to steady himself as he rolled on the condom, briefly pressed down on the base of his cock. Water was running into his eyes, a welcome distraction as he guided himself inside. It was tight, it always was. Tight and slick and perfect and Nick was meeting his thrusts like he was anticipating the movements, meeting strength with strength. A growl worked its way up Renard's throat and he was on edge, had to fight hard to stay in control. Instead, he focused on sliding his hand over wet skin, he followed the sharp jut of Nick's hipbone to his cock. Harder still and wet in a different way, all slick, silky skin. There was little grace about it, no finesse at all, just the slide of hard flesh through his fingers. Then everything descended into the slap of flesh against flesh, the race of their heartbeats. Renard watched as pleasure work its way through Nick's body, watched the way all tension, all pretense fell away, leaving only bliss, open, defenseless. The air was so saturated it seemed almost solid, like trying to breathe heat and water. Both of them came hard. 

*~*

At the appointed time yet another Verrat agent arrived to escort them to dinner. Nick held himself very straight, eyes darting this way and that as though he were trying to memorize the way they were taking. They were served drinks in an elegant drawing room with Mia already in attendance. She was wearing an evening dress so long it swept down to her ankles, long hair pulled back to show off the elegant line of her neck, her shoulders. Her smile, as she lifted her champagne flute by way of acknowledgment, was bright, empty. Renard and Nick were also offered drinks, which they accepted with as much courtesy as they could muster. Viktor joined them mere minutes later, but, other than a few barbed remarks about Nick's attire, he was something bordering on civil. Conversation centered around the weather – unseasonably cold – the food about to be served – at least ten courses – and the accompanying wine – from the family's own vineyards.

By way of marking the occasion, the table had been set in the great hall, silver candelabras and all. Nick shot Renard a poisonous look at the array of glasses and cutlery, then glowered as he spotted Adalind. She was sitting quietly, eyes down, two men who looked like jailers rather than guards behind her. When Renard said her name, she briefly looked up, the startled motion of an animal poised for flight. What had been done to her?

This was neither the time or place to try to find out, though. Mere seconds after they had arrived, another door was thrown open and the king arrived. Frederick was all smiles, visibly pleased with himself.

“Sit. Do sit. I hope I didn't keep you waiting.”

There was some shuffling as they took their seats, the king at one end of the table and Viktor at the other. Renard was seated to his father's right, across the table from Adalind, which left Nick facing Mia. Not, perhaps, the most happy arrangement. At least half a dozen servants were moving about, filling glasses, carrying in the first course. At a wave of Frederick's hand, they retreated.

“We shall drink to family. It has been too long since we have come together like this. Sean, my son. You have gifted us with a new generation, with a path into the future. And, of course, with Adalind, the lovely mother of an exceptional child. We shall take good care of both of them.”

They dutifully lifted their glasses, but, it appeared, Frederick wasn't quite finished. 

“But the past year has also been haunted by tragedy. We shall also drink to my beloved son Eric. May his murder be avenged soon!”

Out of the corner of his eyes Renard caught Mia's wide-eyed look of surprise, but even after all these years he knew her well enough to catch the sharp calculation behind it, the quick flash of expectations met. Viktor's smile was nothing short of predatory.

“I'll drink to that. What do you say, cousin?”

Renard smiled back with a calm he didn't feel. He didn't dare turn to check Nick's reaction.

“It is always a pleasure to see justice served.”

They all drank, silent for the moment. Dinner progressed amicably enough, at least on the surface. As expected, the king dominated the conversation. He talked mostly about Diana, extolling her virtues, her talents, the powers she was exhibiting at such a young age. At some point Renard let the drone of his father's voice fade into the background and focused on the other guests instead. Viktor and Mia were much the same, faces closed-off, masks of polite interest. They might as well have been watching a play or going over their taxes, except for the watchful glint in their eyes, the way they'd still completely at times. What was happening mattered, mattered enough to force even the crown prince to check his reactions. A glance at Nick revealed pale-faced tension. He was holding up well, though, and, if he was wielding his knife and fork with a little more force than necessary, at least all he was attacking was his food. It probably helped that so far he was being mostly ignored.

Adalind, as usual, was easiest to read. By all rights, she ought to have been pleased at the attention lavished upon her daughter, at being included in this dinner. She seemed trapped in her chair, wary, eyes flicking back and and forth between Frederick and Renard as though expecting a blow but not sure which direction it would come from. When the king turned to her, she froze.

“You and Sean must be eager to spend time with your daughter. Tomorrow morning, perhaps? You could visit her right after breakfast. And we'll have to have some pictures taken. You make quite the perfect little family.”

Adalind murmured a reply, but Frederick had already moved on. Her wishes, it appeared, didn't matter. The rests of desert were being cleared away and, in spite of an increasing sense of dread, Renard was about to breathe a sigh of relief, when, suddenly, his father turned to Nick.

“And this would be the Grimm.”

Frederick's voice was quite different now, sharp and cold. There was no warmth in his eyes either, just curiosity, as though he would understand just what it was about this Grimm that kept causing such trouble.

“I am.”

Nick's voice was harsh, just shy of insolent. He was looking straight at Frederick, chin up. Then, after a brief glance at Renard, he lowered his eyes. Frederick nodded.

“My son honored you by bringing you to this table.”

Just what Nick thought of this honor, Renard could only imagine. He turned to face his father, drawing his attention.

“Grimms deserve to be honored, wouldn't you agree? After all, we share a tradition that goes back for centuries.”

“I quite agree,” Mia chimed in, “and since we all share so much in this room, I would ask permission to add another member to our merry round. Like you said, Grimms deserve to be honored.”

Viktor's chortle cut through the air, amusement mixed with grudging respect.

“Another Grimm? Mia, you are full of surprises. Bring them, by all means. I'm sure we are all curious to meet another such paragon – after all, Nick here has left quite an impression.”

After a quick glance at the king to confirm he wasn't about to be gainsaid, Viktor nodded at one of the servants. The woman that was led in little later wasn't physically impressive. She was older, thin, almost gaunt, and dressed entirely in black. Her face was pale in a cloud of black, curly hair, its lines harsh, set, like a carving. The way she moved, however, screamed danger, as did the way her dark eyes scanned the room. The woman – the Grimm – came to stand behind Mia, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. Renard felt his Zauberbiest stir at her scrutiny, had to suppress the urge to snarl a challenge. Next to him, Nick had gone completely still, lips compressed, bone-white. 

Mia laughed, a pleased, tinkling sound: “Impressive, isn't she? Kelly Hartmann has been with me for half a year and I don't know how I ever managed without her. So very lethal. What do you say, Sean, should we see how my Grimm fares against yours?”

The woman's eyes swept past Nick and, although her expression didn't change, Renard could sense her hostility. Perhaps it was just his Wesen-side playing tricks on his mind, but for a moment he felt sure that whoever this Grimm was, Mia didn't own her. He narrowed his eyes.

“Didn't we just speak of respect for a shared tradition? I wouldn't ask this of Nick any more than I would expect my dear cousin to step into the ring for our amusement.”

Although that was something Renard would actually like to see. Viktor looked faintly offended, as well he might. Before he could say anything, however, Nick leaned forward.

“I'll fight her – I'll spar with her, that is.”

Not for the first time that night, Renard felt like was missing vital information. Grimms. Damnably impulsive, the whole lot of them. Stubborn, too. Nick wouldn't back off now, no matter his initial reason for accepting. Mia clapped her hands.

“It is settled, then. I just can't wait!”

The other Grimm still hadn't spoken. Her eyes were fixed on Nick now, on the mark on his neck, only half hidden by the collar of his shirt. Renard didn't like any of this. He made their excuses as soon as possible without breaching protocol. They were escorted back to their rooms by no less than three guards, making it impossible to exchange more than a few words. Once they were left alone, the connecting door remained firmly shut. Renard showered, brushed his teeth, once more feeling strangely adrift. He hated the nagging sense that he was losing control, that things were happening too fast to see the big picture, impossible to predict.

It felt strange to get into bed on his own. What was it about the other Grimm that had provoked this kind of reaction anyway? As far as Renard knew, Nick hadn't met another of his kind since the death of his aunt. He'd understand curiosity, a certain degree of wariness – but shock? Renard turned, restless. He wanted … Nick. Not explanations or the security of a Grimm or even sex. Just Nick.   
Hours seemed to have passed by the time the connecting door opened. Refusing to admit just how relieved he felt, Renard silently lifted the coverlet. Nick climbed into bed and burrowed close. It took a few more minutes, then, barely audible:

“The Grimm at dinner – that's my mother.”

Not what he had expected. Not even close. Renard's mind was reeling, struggling to adjust. The woman had been dead for twenty years. Except that there was no reason to doubt Nick's word, so clearly she was very much alive. Kelly Burkhardt's reputation had been troubling to say the least, but Renard didn't recall anything that might indicate a connection with the Royal Families. Which begged the question-

“What is she doing with Mia?”

Renard was proud to hear that his voice sounded almost steady. Nick's mother.

“I don't know. She's supposed to be working with the resistance. Listen, I need to talk to her – in private.”

Which would be the reason Nick had agreed to that preposterous match. Renard had heard of Grimms within the Läufer and if Kelly Burkhardt was one of them, she'd have been in a prime position to learn of her son's predicament. It would have taken her time to gain Mia's trust, to manipulate the situation to her advantage. Renard tensed.

“Does she know about me?”

“She came to Portland last year. I didn't even know someone else died in that car crash before that. Anyway, she certainly knows about you now.”

She would. Mia did. Mia had also caught on to their more … personal involvement. Nick definitely needed to talk to his mother. For some reason Renard seriously doubted Kelly Burkhardt would see the difference between one ambitious Royal sinking his claws into her son or another. Among other things. God, she had seen-

“I'll ask Mia to have lunch with me tomorrow – somewhere outside the castle. She'll bring her bodyguard and I'll bring you. We'll be followed, but you should have the opportunity to talk. Make sure she knows I'm not the enemy.”

Nick made a strangled sound, half scoff, half growl, the restraint he had shown at dinner growing brittle, shattering.

“My mother, Sean! My mother riding to the rescue like I'm some stupid kid who got himself into trouble.”

It would be hard to stomach. In fact, Renard had to admit to himself that he could recall one or two similar situations in his own past. Nothing he cared to bring up. He ran his hand over Nick's shoulder, down his flank to his hip and back up again in long, soothing strokes. He kept doing so until both of them eventually relaxed.

*

In daylight, Adalind was even paler than she had appeared the previous evening. Renard hadn't liked leaving Nick behind, didn't like the thought of him alone now. There was no helping it, though. It felt strange to be standing with his arm around Adalind, lips tingling from being kissed goodbye by a possessive Grimm. The blue eyes of his daughter were fixed on him with unblinking intensity, her chubby hands reaching out towards him. The photographer motioned for him to pick up Diana, for Adalind to sit down on a hastily arranged chair, for both of them to move closer together and smile, smile, smile. Didn't the man see the tension in Adalind's body, Renard wondered, the sharp shine of fear in her eyes? She had never been particularly adept at hiding her emotions – almost as bad as Nick in that regard, truth to be told – all pouts and sullen glares when things didn't go her way. The photographer, he finally decided after yet another change of position, simply didn't care. After all, she wasn't the one signing his paycheck. 

Schooling his features into a pleasant mask, Renard remembered the dungeons below the castle, the special provisions for holding Hexenbiests. He needed to talk to Adalind, find out how things stood. Sebastien had been doing his best to keep an eye to her, but there were limits to the help he could provide, to how much interest he could show. Even now a small group of guards was ranged in a corner of the room, Verrat by the looks of them and more alert than the simple task of keeping an eye on an albeit reluctant house guest warranted. They wouldn't obey him in preference to his father or even Viktor, but bastard or no, Renard was a member of the Family. Any request he made that didn't violate standing orders couldn't be dismissed off hand. Besides, his father had suggested he spend time with Adalind.

Once the photographer was finally done with them, Renard settled his daughter against his shoulder and stood.

“I need to stretch my legs. What about you Adalind? We could take Diana for a walk.”

The Hexenbiest cast a worried glance at her guards, who were milling about uneasily. Casting a bored glance at the men, Renard said in as preemptive way as possible: “You there, make sure to bring my daughter's things – and inform my father that we won't be leaving the grounds.”

Without waiting for an answer, Renard guided Adalind to the door. Behind them the Verrat agents shuffled and muttered, but short of physically blocking their way, there was little they could do. In the end, three men followed them at a more or less discreet distance, one of them incongruously carrying a pink diaper bag. 

Once they left the shadow of the castle behind, Adalind relaxed visibly. She kept glancing over her shoulder, however, tongue darting out nervously to wet her lips. When she spoke, her voice was almost too low to hear. 

“You have to get us out of here, Sean. Diana – she's not safe. I'm afraid of what they'll do. I can't go outside, I can't see anyone. She's you daughter, Sean! You have to protect us. You of all people must know-”

He might have reminded Adalind of her earlier insistence that the child was Eric's, but Renard wasn't cruel enough to do so in the face of her naked terror. Not when one look into Diana's face was enough to make his heart clench. He shook his head, not exactly refusal.

“Tell me exactly what happened. Everything you know.”

Adalind cast another worried look around. She leaned closer, pretending to check the baby.

“You had Eric killed,” Adalind accused. “For the Grimm. You owe me. You owe both of us.”

There was little point rehashing the vicious circle of failure and repercussions that had led to their current situation. Renard took another look at his daughter, pressed a small kiss to her temple. Adalind was desperate, he reminded himself. That's why she was lashing out.

“Tell me,” he repeated, refusing to rise to her threat.

It was more or less what he had been expecting: Still reeling from the shock of Eric's death, Adalind hadn't objected to Viktor's suggestion of setting her up in the castle. The security measures had seemed prudent in the light of recent events and she had been grateful for the medical attention. For the duration of her pregnancy, things had remained in stasis – while she hadn't been allowed to leave or communicate with the outside world, she had been otherwise left alone, her needs taken care of, her requests accommodated. All that had changed after Diana had been born and the little girl had started to grow at an astonishing rate, showing abilities beyond anyone's expectations. Adalind had been moved to another set of rooms deeper within the castle, her preciously nondescript guards replaced with Verrat. When she had woged at them, a Zauberbiest had joined them. Diana was assigned several nurses, mother and daughter watched constantly by what she understood to be the King's orders. 

The Hexenbiest's eyes were too wide, her woge briefly rippling to the surface: “They've been asking me questions, Sean. About Diana's conception, what I did during my pregnancy. The King had me examined and they won't tell me anything – I don't know what they want to hear. I'm afraid that they'll take my baby. There's this room, this prison. You have to help us, Sean. Please!” 

Adalind's last, desperate pleas were still ringing in Renard's ears when he was in the car with Mia, heading out for their lunch. He would help her if at all possible, he had already decided as much. She was Diana's mother and, furthermore, he wouldn't deny the lingering feeling of guilt at the way he had cast her out.

Another female voice cut through his thoughts: “I believe a car door held open is generally considered a hint to get out.”

Mia was already holding her purse, had clearly been waiting for him to move for longer than she thought fitting. Renard smiled at the amusement in her eyes, then did proceed to exit the car. He waved the driver away and offered Mia his own hand, steadying her until she had gotten her footing on her five inch heels. She reached up to his shoulder with those, moved gracefully thanks to long years of practice. Behind them, a second car pulled up. Nick and his mother. Deliberately ignoring the Grimms. Renard led the way. It wasn't far to the Steirereck and a call ahead from his father's office had secured them a table tucked discreetly into a corner. As soon as they had taken their seats, the head waiter materialized to offer them two glasses of champagne and the menu. Mia accepted the service with an absent-minded smile, as though it were nothing more than her due. After they had placed their orders she turned to Renard, eyes warm.

“I was very happy to receive your message, Sean. When I heard that you would come to visit your family, I couldn't help but hope that we'd have a chance to talk. It's been such a long time.”

In spite of himself, Renard smiled.

“Not all that long, really.”

Mia took another sip of champagne, not the least fazed by the reminder of her recent activities in Portland.

“Too long. Surely we can agree about that? There always seems to be a reason why I should be apologizing to you, Sean – and I so hate it when we quarrel.”

“Let us not quarrel, then. We ought to be able to enjoy a meal together without any further incident, no? Depending, of course, on what's on your agenda?”

Mia laughed at that, declaring herself absolutely agenda-free. Not likely. Renard did his best to keep her entertained, recounting the tale of Volcanalis and assorted other highlights of his career in law enforcement. Even after all these years it was easy to fall back into their old familiarity. In a way it was gratifying to see that he could still make her laugh, still bring that spark of interest to her eyes. After dessert was cleared away, both of them grew quiet. Mia was still looking at him, head-tilted, a small smile playing over her lips.

“I am glad you suggested this lunch. Of course I would have been even happier, if it had been dinner. But perhaps that was to give us more time away from your family.”

When she reached for his hand, though, Renard pulled away. As gently as he could, he said: “Mia, don't. That's not who we are any more.”

She stilled completely at that, searching his face.

“It was, that last time in Portland. You didn't kill me.”

“You knew that I wouldn't. Otherwise you would have never done what you did. That doesn't change anything, though. 

Mia leaned back, eyes unreadable.

“It's the Grimm, isn't it?”

Renard didn't say anything, didn't know what to say, truth to be told. Mia's mouth tightened.

“It is. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're in love with him.”

Love? She would accuse him of love? Renard forced himself to answer lightly.

“You do know better, though. Nick is important to me, I will not deny that. He is a Grimm. He is-” stubborn and impulsive and brave. Almost naive at times, honorable, determined to treat everyone fairly. “-not like us.”

“You think he is going to stand by you when his friends tell him you're not good enough.”

Mia's voice was flat. When, not if. Renard shook his head.

“I think he will not let anyone else make his decisions for him.”

Hopefully that went for his mother as well. Mia turned to gesture for the waiter, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she asked for the check. When she once more looked at Renard, her smile had grown strained.

“You should listen to yourself, Sean. You talk like he is your equal.”

“I thought we weren't going to quarrel,” Renard said quietly, aware that his eyes were growing cold. Thankfully the waiter came back at this moment. Mia handed over her credit card, wiping Renard's protest away with a quick gesture.

“I've got this. Take it as an apology – yet again. I did not mean to give offense. It's just – I never felt that I've lost you before.”

It had been almost two hours and, after that last exchange Renard didn't see a way to prolong this lunch any further without raising suspicion. He could only hope Nick had used his time with his mother well. Some sort of auxiliary room would have been set up for them to wait in – hopefully undisturbed.  
Mia didn't say anything else as they rose and turned to leave. At the door Nick appeared and fell into step next to Renard. He looked tense, pale.

“Sean, you asked me to remind you that you've got business in town this afternoon.”

Renard didn't show his surprise, ignored Mia's raised eyebrow at Nick's familiar form of address.

“Thank you, Nick. Mia, please take the car. I'll take a cab later. We shouldn't be more than an hour or two.”

As though on cue Kelly Burkhardt materialized at Mia's side, whispered briefly into her ear. The latter nodded.

“Oh, very well. I'm heading back to the castle, so I won't be needing you until tonight. Make sure you stay out of trouble, though. No Grimm-business, you hear me?”

Whatever Nick's mother answered was lost in the sound of traffic as Renard let himself be pulled away. They rounded a corner and, once they were safely out of sight, Nick produced a business card and a set of keys with an old fashioned brass-pendant.

“She's got a room in a small pension near the Stephansplatz. Wherever that may be. She said you'd be able to find it.”

Renard made a somewhat impolite noise at Nick's ignorance, then proceeded to lead the way. It wasn't a long walk, even including several detours to shake possible followers. As they got close to the center of Vienna's imperial glory the hordes of tourists grew thicker, closing around them like a flock of alien birds. They were the perfect distraction – chattering, laughing, eating, pausing to look at one building or another only to scatter in all directions.

The pension itself was in the upper stories of a historic building, the entrance set back from the street, all but hidden in a passageway. Since they had a key, it was possible to bypass the reception altogether. The elevator was set in a glass tube with an old staircase winding around it, all dark wood and brass fixings. They unlocked the door and went down a narrow hallway. When they reached a second set of doors, Nick briefly hesitated.

“She wanted to meet you alone. I didn't think that was such a good idea. I'll keep to the background, though. You'll manage, right? I told her about the key.”

Even as he nodded, Renard wondered which of them Nick was more worried about. He opened the door with a firm, decisive moment. A quick impression of the room – old fashioned, slightly worn furniture, stuccoed ceilings and high windows that looked out over the roofs of Vienna. Kelly Burkhardt was already waiting. She was once more dressed entirely in black, hands hidden in the folds of her coat, probably holding a weapon. Renard could feel Nick half a step behind him, body vibrating with tension. He didn't take his eyes of the woman, felt his woge shiver under his skin. Although her face was devoid of expression, her hostility was a physical force in the room. Controlling the instinctive reaction of his Zauberbiest with iron will, Renard regarded her coolly.

“Mrs. Burkhardt.”

He wouldn't give her anything else and, while he might have his own sins to answer for, so did she. Where had she been? When Nick had needed her after his father's death? After Nick's aunt had left Portland without telling him about his true nature, about his heritage? Where had she been when he had first turned Grimm, still completely unprepared and shockingly vulnerable for it?

Kelly Burkhardt's voice was surprisingly harsh, a little raspy.

“I ought to kill you.”

“That might not be as easy as you imagine. Ask my family,” Renard answered calmly, measuring her with cold eyes. Grimm or no, she was nowhere close to his size, wouldn't have half his reach, and he, too was armed. He wouldn't attack first, though. This wasn't the enemy. Nick shifted, drawing both their attention. He held Renard's eyes for a moment, mouthed his name. They were performing again, a different piece for a different audience. Kelly Burkhardt was watching their exchange. She nodded, acknowledging the feint.

“That doesn't mean that you're any better. I know about you and that family of yours, bastard prince. I know what your brother did to my son, what you've been doing to him since.”

“Nick will have told you what happened.”

“He's told me a version of events he believes to be the truth. But we both know better than that, don't we?”

It wasn't difficult to guess just what Nick's mother thought she knew. Why hadn't she tried to kill him, then? Why this posturing? They had taken pains to loose any followers – she wasn't likely to get a better chance, let alone one that would allow her to escape undetected. Renard tilted his head, studied the woman in front of him more closely, taking in the tightness around her mouth, the tension beneath the anger.

“You don't know your son very well, do you? He was a child when you left him. You don't know what he will do.”

Renard felt more than saw Nick shift once more, noted the way Kelly Burkhart's eyes flicked towards him. Her silence was answer enough. Seizing the advantage, Renard pressed on.

“You've been to Portland, you've seen the life Nick has there. You'll have met his friends. He's not a Grimm like you are, like his ancestors were.”

Kelly Burkhardt's frown sharpened, the stubborn glint in her eyes disturbingly familiar.

“Nicholas is my son. You are using him in every sick way imaginable and you will keep using him until you get him killed. I won't stand by and let that happen.”

There it was. Renard didn't dare turn to see what kind of effect those words were having on Nick. The woman wasn't altogether wrong, some small, traitorous part of Renard's conscience whispered. He was using Nick, or at the very least taking advantage of the damage Eric had wreaked. Not that it mattered. It didn't. Kelly Burkhardt was still looking at him with undisguised disgust, but even now she didn't attack. Renard met her eyes.

“That's all as it may be. Perhaps I am everything that you think I am. But where does that leave you here and now? Even if you kill me and convince Nick to leave with you, you'll be hunted. That's not what you want for your son, is it? A life on the run? That's why you didn't take him with you when you faked your own death. That's why you never even contacted him after – to avoid endangering him.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting that we both want to get Nick home safely. The best way to achieve that is for him to return to Portland with me after my father has confirmed my position.”

She did not like this, not one bit, but Kelly Burkhardt was too old and shrewd to overplay her hand at this point. In the end, she didn't agree as much as slowly relax her stance. Her hands slipped from her sleeves, empty.

“A truce, then.”

“A truce,” Renard agreed. “Even you will not believe that I pried Nick out of my brother's clutches to have him fall into Viktor's hands now.”

The merest hint of a smile tugged at Kelly Burkhardt's lips.

“It must be very inconvenient to you to find that I'm still alive. As inconvenient as my sister was?”

Refusing to rise to the jibe, Renard briefly glanced at Nick, who seemed to be having trouble deciding which of them he ought to be glaring at. Kelly Burkhardt merely nodded at her son. Obviously she saw no point in prolonging the conversation. At least, Renard thought wryly, she didn't bother with threats. It was clear enough that she meant to kill him as soon as her son was safe. Nick looked forlornly after his mother, but made no move to stop her. She was almost at the door when Renard spoke up once more.

“I have a favor to ask.”

The woman stopped in her tracks, glared over her shoulder.

“You've got some nerve-”

“If things go wrong, if I'm imprisoned or killed, you'll need to get Nick out of here by whatever means necessary. Don't let him return to Portland. He'll want to protect his friends, but it'll either be too late for that, or he'll lead the family straight to their door.”

Kelly Burkhardt turned fully, face unreadable.

“What if he wants to save you?”

“It'll be too late for that as well. Nick is reckless. Make sure he is protected.”

For a second, Renard thought he saw something like doubt in the woman's eyes. She nodded once more, although whether she was signaling understanding or agreement, he couldn't even begin to guess.

“Mia Gaudot is right. You are more dangerous than that brother of yours.”

With that, she was out of the door. Only now did Renard allow himself to relax. Nick stepped up next to him.

“That didn't go too badly, did it?”

Renard could have argued the point, but wisely refrained. After all, Nick's mother hadn't actually tried to kill him.

“We ought to go back before Viktor thinks to question our absence. And I believe you have a sparring match to prepare for.”

“So I do. Sean … that last thing you said, about my mother needing to protect me – you just said that to gain her trust, didn't you? You don't really expect me to abandon you if something goes wrong?”

Renard hesitated for a moment. Then, with more conviction than he really felt: “Nothing will go wrong.”


	10. Chapter 10

At sunset yet another contingent of Verrat arrived to escort them. Nick had put on an old pair of jeans, boots and a faded T-shirt – probably what he would have worn, if he had been planning to train with Monroe at the trailer. Renard refrained from commenting. They were led out of the castle proper, to the great terraces sprawling down towards the woods. The old hunting grounds, Renard remembered crisscrossed with bridle paths and hiding several cottages reserved for the family's more private entertainments.

On the lawn, near the edge of the trees, a circle of torches was blazing. People were milling about this impromptu arena – Renard spotted Sebastien's face as they got closer, recognized several of the family's more senior employees. Beyond the torches, off to one side, a group of chairs had been arranged, including one that looked suspiciously like a throne. Nick's eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him.

“Seriously?”

Pausing at the edge of the crowd, Renard shrugged.

“Mia likes to do things in style. Just put on a good show and make sure you don't get hurt.”

Excitement was thrumming in the air, the low thrum of voices rising as people turned towards them. Squaring his shoulders, Nick met those curious stares. He didn't hesitate as he moved past the line of torches, towards a rack holding a selection of weapons – clubs and swords, a pair of spears with curving blades that looked vaguely oriental, several daggers and even a battle axe. Renard glanced at the other man.

“Do you know how to handle all of these?”

The Grimm snorted even as he picked up what looked like a large mace, twirling it to test its balance.

“I'll be fine. You've seen the stuff I have at home. Besides, it's not a real fight.”

All the same, accidents happened. This was Nick's mother though, Renard calmed himself. It stood to reason that she would do her utmost to avoid inflicting serious damage. 

Viktor and Mia arrived together, arms interlinked, chatting amicably. She was already gowned for the evening, her white dress shimmering in the flickering light, flat shoes the only concession she had made to the nature of the evening's entertainment. Her eyes met Renard's for a moment, swept over Nick before she deliberately turned away. Servants were moving around offering drinks, adding to the general festival atmosphere. Mia toasted Viktor, head tilted at a flirtatious angle.

“My Grimm should arrive any minute now. We are agreed, then? Modern rules, first blood? Unless Sean has a different preference?”

Renard shook his head even as he accepted a glass of champagne. The fight would be straightforward enough: If one of the combatants drew blood, immobilized the other or drove them from the ring, they won. It would be fine. Nick was well-trained, knew how to avoid injury. Renard had been supervising his police investigations for years, had seen him take on both Wesen and criminals and, on one memorable occasion, been on the receiving end of his blows. It would be fine.

The crowd shifted once more, a murmur rising as Kelly Burkhardt entered the ring. Her outfit was a lot more in tune with the spirit of the occasion: black leather pants and a tight sleeveless top. Renard had to grudgingly admit that she looked as fit as her son and tough as nails. Nick was more than twenty years younger, would have bulk and reach over her, but all the same – in a real fight against her, Renard would take guns over hand to hand any time. Nick, at least, didn't seem particularly impressed, greeting his mother with a mere nod as she joined him to pick out a weapon.

“Come and sit with us, cousin.”

Viktor's tone brooked no argument. Noting that his cousin had claimed the makeshift throne, Renard took seat in a smaller armchair to his left. At his inquisitive look, Viktor shrugged.

“I am sorry to say that the King sends his excuses.” Then with a wolfish grin: “Cousin, I hope you don't mind that Mia and I have undertaken a small wager. If your Grimm wins, she'll accompany me to next years Opernball. If your Grimm loses – well, see that he doesn't.”

The two Grimms were facing each other in the ring. Kelly Burkhardt sketched a quick bow in Mia's direction, although Renard imagined that he could read contempt in the twist of the Grimm's lips. He briefly caught Nick's eyes, unable to deny a sense of mounting excitement.  
Mia rose, gracefully raising her arms over her head. Silence fell, the nervous tension of the crowd momentarily stilled. Renard found himself holding his breath, attention fixed on Nick. The second Mia clapped her hands, both Grimms rushed forward. They collided with a dull thud that drew a startled gasp from the audience. Nick tried to pin his mother's arms, but, catching his intent, she immediately spun away. The woman was fast, Renard thought disjointedly, even for her size and built and, judging by the effortless way she wielded the staff she had chosen, stronger than she had any right to be. He drew a sharp breath as Nick had to jump to avoid one of her lunges. His counterattack seem hasty, clumsily executed. Mia chuckled.

“Does he always rush in like that? It has his appeal, I'll admit, but in the long run one might prefer a little more prudence.”

Without taking his eyes off the lit circle, Renard shrugged with forced nonchalance.

“Nick knows what he is doing.”

“I certainly hope so, considering the trouble he's been causing,” Viktor remarked snidely. He seemed distracted, shifting in his seat, watching the crowd rather than the combatants. Renard followed his cousin's gaze, noting a few men breaking away and head towards the castle. A strangled shout forced his attention back to the ring. The two Grimms had indeed grown more careful, circling while occasionally testing the other's defenses. Was it just his imagination or was Nick moving a little slower than usual? All around them people were whispering, placing bets or commenting on some perceived advantage.

Kelly Burkhardt's next pass was vicious, once more forcing Nick back against the line of torches. Renard's hands tightened on the lions' heads carved into the arms of his chair. He wanted to shout encouragement to Nick, urge him on, mother or no. He could do no such thing.   
More blows were traded, a constant back and forth with no advantage for either side. In the end, everything happened within a split second. Kelly Burkhardt lunged – deliberately? – overbalancing. Instantly Nick seized his chance. He shot forward, ducked, and, grabbing his mother's arm, catapulted her neatly through the line of torches. A groan went through the crowd. For a moment Renard couldn't react, rooted to the spot as his Grimm stood panting, casting strange, distorted shadows in the shifting light of the torches. A mix of relief and triumph churned in his stomach, quickly replaced by apprehension when Nick turned towards the seated Royals. The Grimm hadn't dropped his weapon. For all the people around them, there were few guards in their immediate vicinity. Renard got to his feet, took a cautious step forward, moving half in front of Viktor. Nick had been doing so well. He wouldn't. Surely he wouldn't-

The Grimm knelt. Renard's breath rushed out of him as, for a second, his mind refused to believe what he was seeing. Nick right in front of him, down on one knee, mace propped up in front of him like an offering.

“Sean.”

No title, nothing as formal as that, but in the sudden silence the Grimm's voice carried. Renard resisted the urge to look around and check people's reaction. There was no need to. When was the last time a Grimm had offered allegiance? Then the Grimm in question was peering up through his lashes and those were Nick's eyes, all warmth and humor. Suddenly the whole thing seemed so ridiculous, it was all Renard could do not to burst out laughing. This wasn't what he wanted. Not by a long shot, not any more. Aware that all eyes were on them, he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Nick got to his feet in one, sinuous motion and saluted his mother.

At the same time Viktor rose.

“Walk with me, cousin.”

“Now?” Mia interjected, sounding less than pleased. “I was hoping for a rematch. Kelly can do better than that.”

Viktor barely glanced at her: “I am sure she can, but I am afraid we'll have to ask your indulgence. Refreshments have been laid out in the red hall. We shall join you shortly. ”

“I shall walk with you, then.”

“No. Gentlemen.” There was a was a crack of command in Viktor's voice. Ignoring Mia's protest, he motioned for his attendants. Without a word, the Verrat turned to obey, closing rank around the two Grimms and bowing to Mia as she rose. Nick glanced at the guards, but finally dropped his weapon with an air of contemptuous indifference. He sought Renard's eyes for a moment, gave a tiny nod. The idea of leaving him with Mia and his mother wasn't a comfortable one, but there was little choice in the matter. Viktor was crown-prince and considering the way he had brushed aside Mia's protest, he was intent on getting his way. Moreover, Renard was curious. Whatever his cousin's reasons, it was likely this walk would provide some answers.

Viktor turned away from the castle and, to Renard's surprise, commanded his bodyguards to stay behind at the edge of the woods. Darkness closed around them as the two men stepped between the trees. They walked in silence for some time until, abruptly, Viktor stopped.

“I never understood why Eric stooped to compete with you. After all, what merit could there possibly be in triumphing over some half-blood bastard?”

As much an insult as anything Viktor had ever said to him, but strangely it felt as though it wasn't meant as such. Either way, Renard knew better than to rise to the taunt.

“I've learned not to consider my birth a disadvantage. Having to fight for a place in the world encourages a man to make the most of his talents.”

It was too dark to make out Viktor's expression and the noise he made could have meant anything. He turned to peer into the darkness.

“Make use of those talents, then. Are we alone?”

Renard didn't pretend not to understand. He let his woge ripple forth, took a moment to adjust. He could make out Viktor's expression now, carefully guarded, but at the same time strangely rigid? While Renard did not command the full range of a Zauberbiest's senses, his night vision was good enough to make sure nobody had managed to sneak up on them. He shook off his woge.

“Perhaps you would like to tell me what all of this is about?”

Viktor straightened, voice deliberately casual.

“Have you figured out yet what the King is about with your daughter?”

“I know that he's very taken with her. I know he's been keeping Adalind close, asking her questions, having her examined.”

Not quite the complete picture, but troubling enough, if put into context.

“Your father thinks you and Adalind hit some sort of genetic jackpot. He wishes to … exploit that happy coincidence. Just imagine what five or six of her kind might do for the family in the future. You wouldn't even have to touch the Hexenbiest, if the prospect isn't appealing. Just … make a contribution. Modern science will take care of the rest.”

Viktor paused for a moment, letting the implications sink in. The prospect was … appalling. Renard tasted bile. Diana was a mere babe, ought to be cherished for her own sake, not used as a pawn in her grandfather's sick games. Not used as a weapon. Viktor continued.

“He imagines himself the founding father of a new line, of a new type of Royalty, powerful even beyond the old days.”

Thoughts racing, Renard was grateful he could at least depend on the darkness to conceal his shock. Why was Viktor telling him this? Why would he-?

“You are crown prince. Where does that new line of Royalty leave you?”

“I've been sterilized. The King might expect me to agree to him declaring Diana and whichever nephew of ours seems suitable joint heirs.”

The other families, then. What would they say when they found out about this? The balance between the seven houses had been maintained for centuries, carefully guarded through all their interactions, and that wasn't even considering the boost the Läufer would get once the news spread. Viktor took a step closer.

“You see it, too, don't you? Mia is already sniffing around. Do you imagine she and hers will allow Kronenberg to leap that high? They'll see us all dead first.”

“I imagine you raised these issues with my father.”

An impatient huff. “I did. Your father has convinced himself that he can handle whatever backlash there might be – much as he convinced himself that you had no hand in Eric's murder. 'So long as the girl remains to grow up under our roof, house Kronenberg will not fall,' he told me.”

For a moment, silence fell. His daughter. Queen. It couldn't be done. His mother had only been a king's mistress and look at what had happened to her. It wasn't what Renard wanted anyway. Not revenge, not the bloody kind, the kind he had promised to Nick. Renard held himself completely still.

“You mentioned that you didn't understand why Eric would compete with me – bastard that I am. So why these confidences?”

“Perhaps I am not the villain you make me out to be. Perhaps I have realized that in this, we might be allies. Or perhaps I simply do not care what you do or do not know.”

Most likely none of the above. Viktor had shown his hand for a reason, probably as part of some larger scheme the nature of which Renard couldn't even begin to guess. Not the danger he had anticipated, not Nick. Nothing he was in any way prepared for. He needed time to think this through, time to consider his options.

“I do not imagine we would make good allies, considering-”

Everything, really. Viktor had the audacity to laugh as he checked his watch.

“Come now, cousin. Let's not pretend you didn't get something out of this as well. The Grimm, for example, so sweetly yours. Anyway, it is time. Let's return to the castle.”

Time for what? Following Viktor's rapidly retreating back, Renard bit back on a curse. He would have to find a way to talk to Sebastien in private as soon as possible.

Trees lined the narrow path like sentinels, ragged giants reaching for them with bony fingers. At the edge of the lawn, guards fell in around them. Ten men Renard hadn't seen before, guns clipped to their belts. Too many, considering where they were. Apprehension creeping up his spine, Renard noted that the circle where the fight had taken place had been abandoned. The servants hadn't bothered to clear away the chairs or any of the other debris. Further back the flights of stairs curving up towards the east wing of the castle gleamed like bone and the tall doors at their top stood open. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Viktor's face, too, was pale, expression frozen, unreadable. Only his eyes were ablaze, almost feverish as he once more turned to Renard.

“Your gun, Sean. Please don't play coy. If you try to waste my time, I will have these gentlemen knock you out.”

For a split second Renard considered refusing. Then he wordlessly reached for his gun and handed it over, hilt first. One of the guards stepped forward, gloved fingers pulling the weapon from his grasp. The man woged briefly – Hundjäger – a clear indication of tension. Fear? Ruthlessly forcing down his Zauberbiest, Renard looked at his cousin.

“What have you done?”

Viktor didn't bother to answer. He turned on his heel and made his way into the castle, heading towards the Royal apartments They didn't meet anyone, didn't so much as catch a glimpse of a guard or servant. Renard could feel the eyes of the Hundjäger on him, body tensing further with every step they took. Not now, he told himself, not yet. He wouldn't go down without a fight, but he didn't dare act on suspicions – not without knowing what had happened to Nick, what was happening to his daughter. His only consolation was that nobody knew the two Grimms were working together, nobody knew about Sebastien. Now, if only he could hope with any sort of conviction that Nick would use the distraction of whatever was happening to get the hell out of here.

The corridor leading up the the king's rooms wasn't empty. There were bodies on the ground, all of them dressed in the livery of House Kronenberg, all of them shot. Noting his cousin's lack of surprise, Renard understood. It had happened before, the last time no more than a century ago.

A middle-aged man was waiting for them in front of an imposing set of doors Renard remembered from his childhood. He had only rarely been allowed beyond this point, but he had often followed his mother at night, watched her woge as those forbidding doors were thrown wide for her. 

Viktor held out his hand and received a heavy set of keys. The man by the door bowed.

“All was done as you commanded, your highness. No teeth, no claws.”

“His Majesty?”

“Expressed the wish to repair to his rooms where he awaits your presence.”

Renard glanced at the Hundjäger surrounding him. Too many, too well-armed, too damned nervous. He might take out two or three, but the rest of them wouldn't hesitate to open fire. They, too, knew what was at stake. There was no possible mistaking the situation.

Admitting to himself that he had miscalculated badly left a bitter taste in Renard's mouth. He forced his body to relax. The picture had condensed into shocking, razor-edged clarity and he knew that he needed to stay alert, ready. His chance would come. It had to. Viktor was keeping him alive for a reason – at least for the time being. Renard turned to his cousin, chose the plainest possible words.

“You are going to kill the King.”

Viktor fitted the key into the lock with steady hands. He didn't even look up.

“Oh, no. I tried to prevent an assassination of my beloved uncle. Sadly I arrived just a few minutes too late. Such a tragedy. Now all that remains is to find the culprit. Perhaps the same person who murdered Prince Eric? Although lately I have been starting to consider a different possibility.”

The door swung open. Before entering, Viktor briefly glanced over his shoulder.

“Proceed as we discussed. I'll need two of your men.”

The press of a gun between his shoulder blades left Renard in no doubt that he was meant to follow after his cousin. The King was standing in the middle of the room, for all appearances unhurt. Looking at this man, his father, Renard tried to muster some sort of emotion. Did he want to save him? Not the way he wanted to save his daughter, to protect Nick. A small, venomous voice in the back of his head was whispering that Viktor had the right of it, that after everything he had done, everything he had tried to do, Frederick deserved nothing less. The King regarded all of them with icy contempt.

“Viktor. You have always shown a regrettable lack of foresight. At least you appear to have the courage to do your own dirty work.”

A lack of foresight was not something he would attribute to Viktor right now, Renard grudgingly admitted to himself. Nor was a lack of determination. His cousin was putting on gloves even as he met Frederick's eyes without flinching.

“I wouldn't allow anyone else to spill Royal blood.”

Nor was regicide, in all truth, a task that could be entrusted to anyone else. If you needed to kill a King, you had better do it yourself. Frederick's eyes left Viktor, a dismissal of sorts, and the burden of that pitiless gaze settled on Renard.

“My son-”

He didn't get any further. The shot rang loud in the enclosed space, seemed to echo like an explosion. The King's body crumpled, knees buckling, arms twitching as he hit the ground with a dull thud. Beneath the small round mark on his forehead, Frederick's expression seemed faintly startled. Had he truly expected to walk away from this, Renard wondered dully. A dark, untidy puddle was spreading onto the carpet. The back of his father's head would be a bloody ruin, bone and brains and all the other things that made up a human being. The sweet, sickly smell rising from the corpse mixed with the scent of gunpowder, the thick odor of sweat and Hundjäger. Did those guards know that they were going to die? There was no way Viktor would allow them to live, not after what they had just witnessed. The men waiting out in the hallway, too, and perhaps even their superior. 

Struggling to smooth the frayed edges of his thinking, Renard forced himself to look up. Viktor's breath was uneven, the only indication of any kind of disquiet. Those cold eyes met his, studied him for a moment.

“You really hated him, didn't you?”

Hate didn't even begin to describe what he had felt for his father, didn't even begin to untangle the poisonous mess of emotions Renard very much preferred not to deal with. He pushed all of it away. Viktor didn't seem to be expecting an answer. He lowered his gun, expression almost pensive.

“Did you know that Mia's Grimm is from the US as well? Two Grimms and one key, all of them turning up in the same unlikely place. It would make sense to hide the keys in a continent far from all Royal houses, wouldn't you say?”

There it was. The real reason Viktor hadn't killed him yet, the one chance all of them had to survive this. No other Royal house had a foothold in the US or half the connections Renard had forged over the years. All of that would go away with his death. No great loss, as such, but if Viktor could be made to believe in the possibility of finding more keys...

Renard half-turned, gauging the distance to the Hundjäger. They would know that he was Zauberbiest. The two of them didn't mean anything, though, just bodies drawing breath, enforcing the will of another. Viktor was the one who mattered. He focused on his cousin.

“You have my daughter.”

The door crashed open. Renard didn't waste a second to look. He kicked one of the Hundjäger in the knee, felt more than saw the man's leg collapse. Simultaneously his hand closed around the other guard's wrist, squeezed, twisted, Zauberbiest-strength snapping bone as the gun fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Throwing his full weight forward, he sent the screaming man spinning in Viktor's direction, heard his cousin yelp as he fired his weapon, shot going wide. Then Kelly Burkhardt was there. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder and a wicked-looking blade in her hand, which she used to dispatch the two Hundjäger. Renard picked up the weapon the guard had dropped and kicked Viktor's gun – the one that had been used to shoot his father – away. The Grimm didn't show any surprise at the sight of Frederick's body. Renard suppressed a growl.

“You were supposed to get Nick out of here.”

“He wouldn't leave. He somehow heard gunfire and nothing would do but that we find you.”

More people were filing into the room. Sebastien, a gun held loosely at his side, looking faintly sickened but utterly determined. Adalind, fully woged and moving with some of her usual confidence. Renard's precious daughter, Diana, nestled into her mother's arms, head turning this way and that as she took in the scene with wide, curious eyes. Nick himself brought up the rear, relief naked on his face. At Renard's glare, he merely shrugged.

“I called Sebastien like you said I should. We decided you could use a little back-up.”

Refraining from commenting on his Grimm's blatantly unrepentant disregard of orders, Renard stretched out his arms for Diana. Adalind handed her to him after only a moment of hesitation. He breathed in her sweet baby-scent, felt once more the utter sense of belonging as his daughter settled against his chest.

Viktor, who had been watching them from his position on the floor, sneered, but at least had the sense to remain silent. Renard studied his cousin.

“It seems that we will not be acquiring more keys for you, after all.”

Viktor's eyes were glittering dangerously.

“My people still hold this castle.”

“Are they?” Sebastien cut in, any honorific form of a dress discarded and forgotten, “You cannot have turned them all. People will swear allegiance to the crown-prince, but they won't do the same for a regicide.”

“Besides,” Nick pointed out, “they are out there and we are in here.”

It was a valid observation, all the more so since Adalind and Kelly Burkhardt were currently busy barring the door. Pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Diana's head, Renard smiled into her downy hair. Nick stepped between him and his father's body, a solid comforting presence to his right.

Finally Viktor climbed to his feet. His eyes swept the room: “Sean is speaking for all of you?”

“He is.”

Adalind's voice. She sounded sure of herself, but Renard didn't miss the way she glanced at Sebastien, the way the other man nodded encouragement. Kelly Burkhardt didn't say anything.

Viktor's eyes narrowed.

“I will be King.”

It was all Renard could do not to laugh.

“Have at it, cousin! Walk out of here alive and have yourself crowned – as long as you meet our demands. Of course, somebody is going to have to take the fall for this and it's not going to be us.”

Viktor shifted, visibly checking the urge to look at Frederick's body. He nodded tightly.

“Mia and her Grimm. It can't be anyone else.”

Mia's face flashed in front of Renard's eye, younger and bright with laughter. She might be Royal, beloved by her family, but she was politically unimportant. Some recompense would be expected, but in the end her death would be of little consequence. This was where things had been heading since Nick had knelt to him this evening, since Viktor had received a key that wasn't myth and magic, since Kelly Burkhardt had set her plan to come to Kronenberg into motion.

Mia. She was part of a system he abhorred. She had wreaked chaos in Portland, tried to have Monroe killed. He didn't owe her anything. Rationalizations, petty excuses. Renard knew himself well enough to acknowledge that this choice was a simple one. Mia had to die, so that he could live. So that his daughter and his Grimm could live. Sebastien and Adalind.

Realizing that he had been quiet for too long, Renard glanced at the others. Kelly Burkhardt had shifted into a defensive position, ready to swing the rifle around. Nick hadn't budged from his side, but he had turned to look at Renard, eyes narrowed, not quite suspicious. Not quite pleading.

“You can't have the Grimm,” Renard heard himself say. “The rest of Mia's entourage will have to suffice.”

He caught the look of surprise flashing over almost every face in the room, felt Nick lean in just a little, warm and alive. Diana was heavy in his arms. Drawing a deep breath, Renard steadied himself. They were operating on a time limit. Sooner or later somebody would realize that something was very wrong indeed and break down the door – at that point, whatever options they had right now would be rendered moot. Sebastien cleared his throat and, grateful for the shift of attention, Renard turned to listen.

“It seems to me that we need something a little more powerful than words and promises to seal whatever agreement we may reach. There is a Hexenbiest present.”

Yes. Of course. Renard nodded at Adalind as though this had been his intention all along. She stepped forward like a dancer receiving her cue and woged. A piece of curtain cord detached itself and flew into her outstretched hand. Her smiled bared discolored, broken teeth.

“Yes. There is.”

The expression on Viktor's face was hard to pinpoint. Anger, certainly. Distaste. Something colder underneath, something Renard instinctively understood: calculating, weighing the options, whatever you wanted to call it. Nick shifted, squaring his shoulders as he took half a step forward.

“Or we could just kill the fucker and take our chances.”

It was a deliberate show of aggression, Renard was almost sure of that, not the scalding heat of Nick's real rage. It was enough, though. After that, all that was left was to set terms.

They took positions on opposite ends of the cord, Viktor on one side, the rest of them on the other, shuffling a bit until everybody could get a good grip. Diana, who had been temporarily consigned to a spot on a thick rug, was watching the proceedings with avid interest. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright and, for a moment, Renard wondered whether there was some way the little girl actually understood. Then he turned his full attention to Viktor.

“You first. The exact words we agreed on.”

A tight nod, acceptance of the inevitable as much as acknowledgment. They would leave tonight, all of them, and never speak a word of what had happened. In return, Kronenberg would officially recognize the independence and autonomy of the Canton of Portland. Their would be no further hostilities. Viktor would live to be King and as such neither order nor abet any harm to be brought to them or their adherents. They wouldn't attempt to retrieve the key now in Viktor's possession. The pictures Eric took of Nick would be destroyed and Diana's custody would be officially given over to her parents. House Kronenberg would have no further claim on her. 

After the last words had been spoken, Renard felt Adalind's woge vibrate down the length of the cord, felt the second her blood soaked into the fabric, a pressure locking around his neck, squeezing briefly before dissipating. The cord writhed like a living thing, looping itself into a noose.

*

It should have felt utterly surreal, walking away from his father's body, from the bustle of his cousin's rise to power, flanked by two Grimms, a Hexenbiest and one of his oldest friends. It felt right. Diana was cooing happily, hands reaching out to snatch at Adalind's hair. He wanted to go home, Renard realized. He wanted the solid quiet of his office with all the busy solidarity of the bullpen just a few steps away. He wanted to sip tea at the spice shop and listen to Nick and Monroe argue about Wesen, see the fond smile of Rosalee's face as she brought the two men back on track. He wanted a good glass of wine and Henrietta's advice. He wanted Nick leaving dirty dishes on his kitchen counter, Nick in his bed, naked and blissed out, reduced to broken sounds. 

The roar of a helicopter made Renard tense. He was about to pull his gun, when he caught Kelly Burkhardt's smile. The woman nodded at the window, at the flashing lights and whipping trees beyond.

“It looks like our transport is here.”

For all that they were ostensibly safe, none of them wanted to take the time to pack. They ended up grabbing only a few personal items and the necessities for keeping a baby fed and cared for. What people they met steered well clear of them, but once, down the corridor leading back to the royal apartments, Renard spotted a gaggle of guards. Mia was walking in their midst, a pale ghost amidst the sea of dark suits. Her steps were firm and unhurried, but she turned her head to look at him, earrings flashing against the white skin of her neck. She didn't call out. They knew exactly what to expect from each other. As the group disappeared around the corner, Mia's lips curved in a wistful smile that left a bitter taste in Renard's mouth.

Discovering Meisner at the helm of the helicopter didn't even register as much of a shock. Renard merely nodded at the other man as he climbed in, too grateful to question his presence.

“Bratislava?”

“Yes. Seems like the safest option.”

It was. Sebastien, who was already buckling himself into his seat, looked over his shoulder.

“Are we all going to Portland? I've got the emergency contact of the family's traveling agency and I doubt anyone has thought to cancel my account just yet.”

It felt good to be able to sink into the seat and let somebody else take over. Renard didn't close his eyes, too afraid of what he might see. He looked out into the darkness instead. His stomach lurched as a roar of the motors propelled them into the sky. 'Don't think' he told himself. 

The flight didn't take long. After Vienna had fallen away beneath them, there wasn't much to see. Renard was vaguely aware of voices, but he couldn't be bothered to listen. Nick was sitting next to him. He could see Diana's wispy curls where she was resting against Adalind's shoulder, the vulnerable curve of her cheek.

*

Meisner had arranged rooms in a small hotel in the outskirts of Bratislava. Suddenly very much aware of Kelly Burkhardt's presence, Renard picked up one of the keys. The Grimm's face was once more set in hard lines, eyes guarded, watchful. While the others were still arguing about sleeping arrangements, she pulled her son aside. Visibly impatient, Nick only followed for a step or two. Renard quickly turned away, but he couldn't help but listen.

“Mother, don't.”

“Nick, you have to see-”

“Don't! He needs me.”

“He seems fine to me.”

“Well, he isn't.”

The worry in Nick's voice ought to have stung his pride, but thankfully the group had sorted itself out and people started to leave before he could make a fool of himself. Without waiting how the argument between the two Grimms ended, Renard made his way to his room. By the time Nick caught up with him, he was still fumbling the key into the lock. The room was small, serviceable. Renard placed his laptop onto the table and, for lack of anything better to do, sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He didn't know what to say to Nick.

The Grimm's face was inscrutable as he moved closer. He stopped only right in front of Renard, head tilted, half-lowered.

“I'm sorry.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Renard gritted his teeth.

“Don't. I'm all right. You don't have to-”

He gestured vaguely, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Lie? Try to help? Nick reached out anyway, resting his hand lightly on Renard's shoulder.

“He was your father.”

A choked sound escaped Renard, half snort half laugh.

“He was planning to breed Adalind and me. Diana is special. That's why Viktor made his move.”

“You wouldn't have done it.”

Nick sounded utterly sure of himself. His thumb brushed Renard's neck, then abruptly, his grip tightened.

“All right, here's what we do: We'll go to bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll go home and then we'll figure out how all of this is going to work. How we work. You did well, Sean. We're all alive and Viktor can't hurt us. Now get up and take off that suit.”

Renard didn't find it in him to protest. He undressed and crawled between the sheets, felt the weight of the down comforter settle on his body. Nick moved to pick up his clothes and folded them neatly over a chair. At Renard's blank stare, the Grimm shrugged.

“You'd hate putting on wrinkled clothes tomorrow.”

A few minutes and a brief detour to the bathroom later Nick slid into bed and curled close. He reached out and gently linked their fingers together. Then, quietly:

“I want to tell the others about us. Monroe and Rosalee and Hank.”

Of course. It made sense. There would be no coming home to the way things had been, to the approval of the group. Renard swallowed bitter laughter.

“Best get it over with before they find out from Adalind or your mother?”

Nick's grip on his hand tightened, blunt nails digging into his palm.

“Yeah, but that's not what I meant. I want to tell them. We're good together and I want my friends to know.”

It sounded like a threat as much as a promise and Renard wanted nothing so much as to let himself shelter behind those comforting words. He should know better. He really should. Another sharp pinch and Nick was glaring at him as though he could somehow tell in which direction his thoughts were heading.

“Stop it, Sean. You need to sleep. I'll wake you up, if it looks like you're having a nightmare.”

Resistance collapsing, Renard closed his eyes and let his Grimm wrap strong arms around him. Nick was here, warm and alive and everything he needed. Sleep claimed both of them within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. Only the epilogue left. I really can't believe it!


	11. Epilogue

The house was filled with light and laughter. Renard had briefly retreated to the porch, leaning against the porch as he cradled a glass of wine in his hand. It was quiet out here, pleasantly cool with dusk falling around them. Nick's new house was smaller than the one he had shared with Juliette, a poky two bedroom affair at the edge of the city. Not what Renard would have chosen, but he could see the advantages – no neighbors to speak of and if the way to work was longer, there was a good hiding place for the trailer just a short drive down the road.

A sharp cry of protest made Renard look over his shoulder. Diana had recently started to walk and any attempt to curtail her newly discovered mobility was met with fierce resistance. The wailing subsided quickly, however. Nothing to worry about. It still seemed like something of a miracle that he should be allowed to have this, his little girl safe and nearby, having as normal a childhood as they could manage. It had taken some time and a lot of compromises on both sides, but he and Adalind had worked out an arrangement that suited all parties involved, an arrangement made possible by a stroke of luck in form of a recently vacated apartment in Renard's building. Nick had not been best pleased. Ever since their joint escape from Vienna an uneasy truce had prevailed, but too much had happened for the Grimm and the Hexenbiest to be truly comfortable in each other's presence. Still, Nick was trying, had actually made the effort to invite Adalind to his housewarming party and greeted her at the door with a smile. Granted, the last part might have been directed at Diana rather than her mother, but beggars couldn't be choosers and Renard was inclined to count any meeting between the two of them that didn't end with a fight as a success.

There was a sudden movement and Kelly Burkhardt seemed to materialize out of the shadows. Apprehension shivering up his spine, Renard put his glass down. And turned fully towards the Grimm. Nick's mother had chosen to remain in Portland for the time being and, although Renard had been careful to stay out of her way, he was very much aware of her continued presence. Kelly lifted her hand to show that she was holding a glass of her own as she moved to stand next to him. She looked out at the line of trees, ink-black against the grayish sky.

“I do not think that my son would forgive me for killing you.”

There was something to be said for blunt honesty. Studying the woman's profile from the corner of his eye, Renard's lips twitched into a smile.

“I've been thinking the same thing about you.”

There was a definite hint of laughter in Kelly's huffed breath. She quickly turned serious again, though, eyes dark and hard as mirrors.

“I will not be able to stay in Portland much longer. I am needed in Europe and, frankly, it seems like Nick is doing well enough on his own.”

There was nothing particularly confrontational about the woman's voice or stance, but at the same time she seemed very much Grimm. Renard let out a slow breath. Not here, not at Nick's new house. That much was clear enough. He watched the Grimm carefully.

“Do I have to worry?”

“Let us say that I am pending judgment.”

Kelly Burkhardt was looking at him the way Nick sometimes did when he was waiting for something. Renard hesitated, wondering what she wanted to hear.

“Perhaps we could agree that, should the situation change, we'll let each other know before taking action?”

“We could agree on that.”

It was more than he had dared to hope for. A silence settled that felt almost comfortable and for a while they simply stood side by side, sipping their drinks.

“Mother? Sean? What are you doing out here?”

Nick sounded a little anxious as well he might. Kelly turned to smile at her son, giving Renard a brief nod as she started towards the door.

“No need to worry, Nick. I merely told Sean that I'll be leaving soon. He's been polite enough to hide his delight.”

“Well, I'm happy to hear Sean's been polite to you, mother.”

A quick look passed between mother and son, amusement mixed with relief and something akin to acceptance. Then Kelly Burkhardt went back into the house, shoulders back, head held high. Nick moved to stand next to Renard, a solid line of warmth in the cool evening air.

“Adalind asked me to tell you that she'll be leaving soon. Diana is growing restless.”

“Should we call them a cab?”

“Sebastien is driving them.”

Diana was indeed fretting when they got back inside. Renard picked her up and ran tickling fingers up her spine. With a grateful smile, Adalind proceeded to gather blankets and napkins and a startling number of toys that had been dropped and forgotten in various improbable places. Nick was leaning close, occasionally grasping one of the baby's feet to tug at her toes. It was impossible not to fall in love with his little girl, Renard thought fondly, as Diana squealed with delight, chubby legs thrashing. His daughter was safe. With a Hexenbiest, a Grimm and all of the defenses he had built in Portland ranged around her, she was as safe as Renard knew how to make her. Sebastien caught his eye and smiled. 

“We had better be on our way. Adalind has been getting too little sleep as it is.”

Truth to be told, Sebastien looked more than a little tired himself. Watching his old ally help Adalind carry Diana's things to the car, it occurred to Renard that Sebastien's stay in Portland might turn out to be more permanent than either of them had expected. He would need a job, of course, some sort of occupation that suited his talents. An idea rose from the depths of Renard's mind, some fragmented plans he had been toying with years ago. The time had never seemed right, what with the constant threat of the family's interference and, later on, Nick taking up all of his attention. Now, however...

Renard rejoined the party but couldn't quite keep his thoughts on track, pausing repeatedly to save half-remembered ideas into his phone. He probably ought to be paying attention, try to read the mood of the group. Truth to be told, Renard couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around the fact that Nick had actually done it. Hank and Monroe and Rosalee: over the past two weeks Nick had taken them aside one after the other, sat them down and told them – Renard was not sure what, precisely. Enough, at any rate. Nobody had said anything to him, not overtly, but he'd have to be a fool not to realize that Nick's mother wasn't the only one pending judgment. He'd also have to be a fool to miss out on the fact that no matter what difficulties they were still facing, Nick had kept his word. Was keeping his word and seemingly happy about it. They kept up appearances – for work's sake, if nothing less – but every now and then their eyes met and, hours later, when the party was winding down and Renard was unsure whether he ought to at least pretend to leave with the others, the Grimm stopped him with a minute shake off his head.

Little later blessed silence descended. The living room was littered with dirty glasses, half-empty bottles, used napkins and quite a few pizza boxes. Potato chips crunched under the soles of his shoes as Renard made his way towards the kitchen where Nick was rummaging around the fridge.

“Just leave it,” he called over his shoulder as he emerged with two bottles of beer, “we'll clean up tomorrow.”

The unearthed the opener under a piece of wrapping from one of the housewarming gifts – a cookie jar shaped like a cop, who gave everybody a stern warning who dared to lift the lid. Renard was quite sure Wu was responsible for that one. He shook out the pillows and settled down on the new couch, lips curling into a smile as Nick toed off his shoes and sat down with a sigh. The Grimm leaned back, head tilting as he looked at Renard.

“So what have you been thinking about? You've been distracted.”

“Portland.”

“What about it?”

“You're friends with a lot of Wesen, aren't you? I met a few of them at your party.”

“Yeah. Most of them were involved in my cases. They can't really talk to the other detectives, so they call me if they get into trouble.”

It figured, of course. After all, Renard had been going out of his way to assign Nick cases involving Wesen, once he had realized just what his detective was. He lifted his beer to his mouth and took a deep swallow.

“There are more Wesen, of course. A lot of them never get into trouble with the law – I know of several police officers in the south precinct and there are lawyers, judges even. A few of the most important businesses in town are run by Wesen-families. I have been thinking that it'd be good to have a place to get together, some sort of panel to address our needs, provide help before things get … out of hands.”

“Like the Eisbiber lodge?”

“I guess. For all Wesen, though. We'd need to get financing, of course, establish some sort of cover, a foundation perhaps.”

“Not just law enforcement, you mean. Yeah, I see what you're getting at. Monroe got harassed for being friends with a Grimm some time ago – we could have addressed that. Or those Reinigen being bullied.”

There was a definite note of excitement in Nick's voice. It was easy to get carried away, to dream and plan and laugh at each other's increasingly ludicrous flights of fancy. Finally Nick fell silent, shifting to fit their bodies more comfortably together. Studying the other man's profile, Renard forced a breath through the sudden tightening of his chest.

“I want this,” he said quietly, hoping that Nick would understand. Of course there was the possibility of power – Renard couldn't deny the lure of it – and the very practical consideration that they'd need a backup plan if (when) their affair was inevitable discovered and they wouldn't be able to work together any longer. That wasn't all that there was to it, though. He did want this, this life with Nick here in Portland. It'd be enough. More than enough, actually. To be together, to build something real and lasting, something both of them might be proud of. 

Nick was reaching out to rest his hand on Renard's thigh, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans. There was warmth in those blue eyes, warmth and something very like approval. He leaned in for a kiss, half-laughing against Renard's mouth. Perhaps he did understand.

“I want this as well. Now, how about we go upstairs and check out the extra big bed I bought specifically with my very tall boyfriend in mind?”

That, too, sounded like a plan.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it is done. Thanks so much to everybody who kept reading and supporting this story. You are great, guys!


End file.
